2022-01-05 - Guns and Ammunition

It's been a week or so since the incident at the big box store. Christmas and New Year's have come and gone, and the radio's no longer playing All I Want for Christmas is You on repeat. There's rain, rain and more rain to look forward to in the next few months.

And, one particularly unassuming (and wet) afternoon, a visitor in the form of a police cruiser. It's unmarked, but very obviously a cop car. Mud spatters the black paint job, and the push bar on the front looks a little scratched and dented. Once the engine's killed, a sturdy looking Hispanic fellow in a battered leather jacket, snug black jeans and slightly scuffed boots steps out. He consults his phone briefly, shuts the car door and heads up to the house before rapping on it three times. Police style, with the side of his fist.

An old, battered, ice blue Camry is parked out front on the curb, registered to one Jules Black. Other than that, there’s no other vehicles; whoever else may live in this relatively large house, they don’t seem to home.

It takes a few minutes for anyone to come to the door. A face appears in an upstairs window, first, and while the person looking out most likely can’t see the person at the door below, that cop car is perfectly visible. A moment later, after clattering down the stairs, the front door opens halfway, and there stands Jules. Her black hair is loose over her shoulders, and she’s hastily pulled on a maroon sweater to look halfway presentable; black leggings and bare feet, otherwise. Polite but wary, she asks, “Can I help you?” Her gaze is sharp, taking him in from head to toe before settling on his face — oh yes, this man at the door has been recognized. Her mouth immediately tightens, and her shoulders go stiff with tension.

The door opens, and he shoves his hands into his pockets, and attempts a smile for the woman who appears. It's not so much a smile as a quick baring of his teeth, like he wants to take a bite out of her. "Ms. Black?" The cop looks askance for a moment, as the hiss of tires on the rainswept street signals a passing car. Then he digs his badge out, and holds it up so it's plainly visible. "Javier de la Vega, GHPD." Obviously she knows who he is. The thing's closed and shoved away again, and his radio crackles. "You, uh. You mind if I come in? Won't take much of your time." He hitches his shoulders like he's cold, and he probably is.

"That's me." She still looks wary -- if anything, more so for having seen the badge. Still, Jules maintains her manners for the officer of the law, and after a little nod, she opens the door wider and steps aside to let him in. "Why don't you come into the kitchen," she says after an awkwardly long pause, one in which she might well be considering not inviting Javier de la Vega past the entryway. "This way."

Past a living room and another closed door, the kitchen sits at the back of the house, with a door leading out to the yard. It's old-fashioned but clean, with an eclectic mish-mash of mugs and a hutch for china and crystal. In other words, not exactly the kinds of things a young twenty-something would own; more like someone's grandmother. There's a table and chairs to which Jules gestures. "Would you like something to drink?"

The wary look is noted with his usual aplomb. The silence is allowed to draw out, like he has no problem at all with that awkwardly long pause, or the possibility of being turned away entirely. Like maybe he'd leave without a fuss, and agree that he did his due diligence in coming here and trying to check up on her. He's no people person; why should he put more effort into this than he has to?

But she lets him in, and he moves like some mangy old wolf who's just been invited into the henhouse. He's wearing a big ol' gun holstered at his hip, of course; there's no missing that, as he ambles on inside and takes a look about. "Glass of water, sure," he murmurs to the offer of a drink. He doesn't sit, though. Not yet. "You live alone here?"

So Jules takes out a glass and fills it from the tap, then sets it on the table instead of offering it directly. “No,” she answers shortly. “I rent a room. My roommates are out right now.” Just Jules, alone with a gun-toting policeman. She is not thrilled about this, basic hospitality notwithstanding. If the officer isn’t sitting, then she won’t either, opting to lean back against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed. “So what can I do for you?”

He's no rank and file officer, according to that badge. Chief something or other, which if Jules knows her townsfolk, he's the head of the police in this podunk little town.

"Got it," he murmurs in his scratchy rumble, and leans over to snag the glass of water, and take a sip. His dark eyes continue roving around the room. "I'm sorry you got caught up in that, uh." He gestures with the glass, and shifts his gaze back to her. "Mess." Well, that's one way of putting it. "How're you managing?" His radio goes off again, and he frowns a little and reaches over to turn it down.

"I'm fine." Jules' body language states the direct opposite: on edge, verging on a fight-or-flight response, bristling even further now that the hostage situation before Christmas has been mentioned, however obliquely. "Is that why you're here?" Say it, say it, her eyes dare him. Adrenaline pushes her towards outright confrontation: "I saw what you did."

Her assertion hangs there, and now she's holding her breath, gaze steady, willful, and just a little wide-eyed as she waits for the reaction.

The cop guzzles more water, and looks around her rented place some more. Like he's filing away the details in his little internal rolodex somewhere for later retrieval. At some point he seems to realise she's been talking to him, and his dark eyes rove back to the woman and her challenge to him. Her question-not-a-question. Her demand.

He drinks more of the water, throat working as he downs it all, empties the glass, then leans back over and sets it down again where he'd found it. He clears his throat, and shoves his hands back into his jacket's pockets. "Would you.." He jerks an elbow toward her couch. "Like to sit down?"

And just like that, the adrenaline ebbs, and Jules exhales. "Yeah, sure," she says, stepping forward to pull out one of the chairs at the kitchen table. But first, "More water?" Without waiting, she refills the glass, and gets herself a glass of water, while she's at it.

"Thanks," is accompanied with another of those taut, wolfish little flashes of his teeth. Then he moves toward one of the other chairs, and takes a seat as well with a rustle of movement. This close, he smells like leather and cordite and rain.

Once the glass is refilled, his hand settles around it. Weathered and covered in ink that looks gang-related, and probably is. He turns the glass a fraction, then turns it again. "Nobody there deserved to die. Not even that sad sack of shit holding up a Walmart for a playstation." He runs his thumb along the rim of the glass, and lifts his dark eyes to Jules. "I'm sorry if I frightened you."

Jules seats herself opposite, both bare feet braced against the floor. Still, she’s starting to settle — or at least, no longer looking like she’s about to arm herself with a kitchen knife or bolt out the back door.

Save for a glance for the tattoos, she keeps her gaze pinned on him, as if looking away might be dangerous, or as if she might miss something. “You didn’t frighten me.” Her unwavering stare turns considering with the slight uptick or one eyebrow. “So what, are you gonna wipe my mind now?”

Her demeanor's noted, and probably filed away too. Unremarked upon, though. The guy looks like a brute, and maybe he is or maybe he isn't. "Hm," is his eloquent response to her first words. More fidgeting with the glass. He's really not much of a people person, is he.

Then, "Wipe your mind? No." A sip, finally. "No, I'm not going to wipe your fucking mind. I came to see how you were doing. Ask whether you planned on pressing charges." His eyes tick back up to her.

“Oh.” Jules looks just a little sheepish. “I thought maybe I wasn’t supposed to know.” Finally, she reaches for her own glass. One long swallow later, “Is that something I have to do? I figured that was all—taken care of.” Setting the glass down again, she rakes fingers through her hair and scratches the back of her head. It’s one more unsettled tic, with her arm drawn in protectively. “So what do I need to do?”

The cop makes a funny little moue with his mouth, and gestures slightly with his glass. "You come down to the station, you fill out some paperwork. We talk about what you saw. You confirm who the fucker is. And we go from there." He watches her a few moments, then drinks again. Scratches at the bridge of his nose with his knuckles as he watches her closely. "You've, uh. You've got the shine, too. You know that.. right?"

A sigh, then she drops her hand and nods. “Okay.” It isn’t fun, and Jules doesn’t want to, but she will.

At the question, her mouth jigs a little to the left, accompanied by a little puff of air. Not quite surprise, not quite amusement. Somewhere between them, or attempting them. “Yeah.” This time she breathes in deep, like she’s steeling herself. “I think it’s cause of my mom. She’s...different.” Jules pauses, then looks the cop straight in the eye. “I used to think she was schizophrenic. Now I think she’s haunted.” It’s not quite the right word, and the furrow in her brow suggests a level of dissatisfaction. “I think maybe being here, where people talk about it and use it, that’s better than ignoring it, trying to shove it down. Or running.”

For all his awkwardness with this. This.. having to listen to people, and worse, talk to them, de la Vega meets that look squarely. There's no attempt to shy away from it. He lets Jules talk about her mother, and he runs his tongue along his teeth thoughtfully, big hand loose around his glass of barely-touched water.

"I don't know about that," he murmurs eventually, with a chuckle. "If being here's better. I mean, if nobody's given you the speech about leaving this shithole town yet, I'll give it to you now: leave this shithole town, if you can. It'll fucking suck you dry." He seems to consider saying more, then simply nudges the glass away and makes to stand, reaching to steady his gun as if by habit as he moves.

Jules moves when he does, not about to be left alone at the table. She leaves collecting the glasses for later. “I got the speech,” she says, shoulders squared and chin lifted at a belligerent angle. “I figure there’s fuckers with shotguns everywhere. It’s America.” She spits the word out like it’s a curse. “I am not going to go running back to the res like a good little Indian. I got things to do here.” Her hackles are up now; clearly, the young woman doesn’t like being told what to do. “I figure if my people could learn to live here, I can too.” She’s definitely not referring to the Addingtons or the Baxters or any other notable family.

There's a twinge of something in his eyes, the way she says that word, America. Not censure. Not anger; not with her, anyway. Rather the opposite. Look what this place has done to his people, after all; build the fucking wall, and make America great again and the death threats he gets on a nearly weekly basis because he's got the audacity to be a Mexican Chief of Police in a white town.

"Right," is all he says, quietly, and offers her his card before moving off for the door. "Well, you let me know if there's anything else I can do for you." He'll watch her a long moment before letting himself out, back into the rain.