2013.07.27 - Ghost, Meet Smokey

One of the reasons Kwabena Odame is hard to track down? His scope is pretty damned broad.

Shift had an old contact in Cincinnati. A fellow he didn't use often, and for that very reason, he remains a good contact. Unfortunately, the last time Shift was in Cincinnati, things didn't exactly go too well. Fortunately, the local police are a bit too concerned with small time drug dealers to really pay attention to Shift... just another black man, roaming around Vine Street at 9:00 in the morning.

Probably coming down from an all night crack binge.

By 9:34 am, Kwabena has disappeared. Through a gated alley and into a dark and dirty passage he went, next to an old club reminiscent of the days before gentrification struck OtR. The sign up front reads, 'The Warehouse', and if its reputation is secure, the place might remind someone more out of something like the Matrix once inside. It seems the small remnant of Goths that still party in Cincinnati seem to descend upon this place in droves. Indeed, a small handful of them are hanging out in front--even though the club has been closed for hours--smoking cigarettes and wearing sunglasses to hide their dilated pupils.

Above the club, in an old ballroom filled with relics from a day long past, thin rays of morning sunlight shine through in bright contrast with the otherwise darkened room. 'Duckie', as he is known, leers at Shift from behind the thick haze of a cuban cigar.

"Well, I'll be dipped in human shit." Duckie leans forward, eyeballing the African with a big old sneer. "What the hell are you doin' back in my neighborhood?"

John Carmichal has been many things in his day. Street urchin during the Great Depression, Underpaid, Overworked laborer during the recovery of the 1930s. (Read street-wise tough acting as a bag man for the rum-runners, and 1st generation mobsters of NYC and Chicago). Soldier and spy during "The War", otherwise known as WWII to the rest of the modern day world, and then finally after the war, a married man, supporting a wife on GI benefits, and working with an older, wiser private detective, learning the ropes...until a desprate man took his wife from him. Then he put on a mask too. Now, 62 years later (most of which spent dead, encased in a concrete foundation pillar) here he was. Private Detecive-ing again. He'd been hired to track down 10 mutants. He'd managed so far to find 8 of them. One of them had turned state's evidence and was in Wit-Sec, which meant he was off limits...that left just one. Kwabena Odame. This one was proving a little difficult, but Carmichal had expected that.

Carmichal's secretary, Jocelyn who was also a mutant had warned him that this man was resourceful. She was right. Every lead the detective had turned up, had simply led to another dark corner, or another dead end, but John was like a proverbial pit-bull. He didn't give up. So when the last lead he'd gotten told him to check out a place called "The Warehouse" in Cincinnati, Carmichal hopped the first train. Planes were still a bit too much for him what with their jet engines, and sardine-packing seating. No, Trains might be slower, but they did the job just fine.

He stands outside on the street, idly, realizing how out of place he looks. He's white. He's dressed like something out of a Noir film, and he doesn't seem in the least intimidated by his surroundings. He eyes the place from outside for a while, before he turns, ducking down a different alleyway, out of sight, and pulling his mask on. He phases out of his civilian clothes, dumping everything but his wallet, and fire-arm. He picks up his trench coat, and hat putting them both on...and then, in a quickly forming cloud of fog, fades into invisibility, as he begins to step toward this club he's been told to check out. Yeah...broad daylight wasn't the best for this, but hey...he was invisible, he could make it work!

The handful of Goth kids, noting John, begin to point and snicker. There are a few choice remarks, one of them being, 'Hey, old man! You look just like Jim Tarbell!' -- which sounds like a joke for the locals. Either way, they leave him well enough alone, especially when John begins casing the joint. He might be a cop, after all, and they were on how many hits of MDMA?

The Goths disperse, providing John no further, ahem, annoyance.

Meanwhile, on the third floor of the old building known as 'The Warehouse', Kwabena has just dropped a strap of $10,000 in cash on Duckie's table. All $100 bills, stamped by, of all things, 'Brinks Money Services'. Kwabena lets the room breathe for a few moments, his mis-matched eyes glued to Duckie, ignoring the four muscles who lurk around the edges of the ballroom.

Duckie smirks. "Alright, how many eight-"

"New identity," interrupts Kwabena. "D.L., Passport, de kind of shit TSA won't blink an eye at." Straight from Ghana, Kwabena's accent clearly suggests that English is his second language. He leans forward, fixing Duckie with an even stare while producing a single finger to the air. "And one favah. So help me, Duckie, if it has me running all ovah dis damn city, we'll have problems."

"One favah," Duckie mocks, then reaches out to collect the strap of bills. "Okay, alright. I think I can do that." He leans forward, giving Kwabena an evil little smirk. "You ever been 'cross the river to Covington?"

Moving in invisbible form isn't easy. John's invisibility was a variation on his ability to phase through solid matter, only instead of matter, he was affecting light. It took concentration, but sadly it did not stop things like IR sensors from reading him. He hoped this place didn't have any IR cameras affixed anywhere, and stuck with low-light, or regular old muscle to secure the joint. He steps lightly, trying to move as silently as possible, before finally he slips through the nearest wall of the building, poking first his head through to make sure he wasn't about to walk into an electrical generator. He'd made that mistake once. It hurt. High energy tended to react badly with his phased body, and caused him to go both visible, and solid...well, it also tended to throw him literally off his feet, so he was careful these days.

Upon entering the club, he looks around, taking it in. Closed as it was there wasn't much here to see...so he makes his way upstairs, creeping along as silently as he's able, still invisible, still in phase, just in case.

The first floor of the club would at first appear to look like any old dive. That's the front room. The back room is where the magic happens, so to speak. It is filled with cages and chains, all held upon a pedestal that, to someone not familiar with this kind of lifestyle, might bear more of a resemblance to some kind of religious cult than a nightlife joint.

To put it lightly, the second floor is filled with rooms, each of which bear long couches, sometimes beds, sometimes tables with affixed handcuffs and bindings. Moving on.

"Though it," answers Kwabena. "You've got no deal," clarifies Kwabena, "unless you can bring what I've requested here." He stabs his finger into the table three times. "Tonight. Undahstand?"

A clicking sound comes from behind Kwabena's head, and soon, he feels the cold steel of a pistol up against his skull. The thug behind him grins.

"Odame, Odame," breathes Duckie. "Your reputation proceeds you, but you know what I heard?" The mobster leans forward, waving his cigar to the side while he leers at Kwabena. "You can't dodge bullets at point blank range."

The BDSM back-room is given the once over by The Ghost curiously. He hadn't caught on to any of that yet, and had only just learned to use a search engine on the internet. So far, he'd not managed to stray into porno-land on the interwebz. Ahhh the fun he'll have trying to figure out what life has become post-60's-sexual-revolution. He moves beyond that. There aren't any people here of interest to him. He was looking for Odame. He had an old photo of the man he'd managed to get off an old rap sheet, so he knew who he was looking for. He just hadn't found him yet.

After hunting around a bit, eventually he finds more stairs, and being the thorough type he is, he begins to climb them. As stealthily as he knows how (which is pretty stealthy considering he's not solid, AND he's not reflecting the visible light spectrum.)

Right about the time John is nearing the second floor, voices can be noticed from the next flight up. The first one is that of Kwabena, who's tone is one of daring.

"Would you care to test dat theory?"

Duckie's voice comes next. His is gruff, a bit cocky. "Ain't no damn scientist. Besides, I don't think you're in a position to-"

"In about fifteen seconds," Kwabena interrupts, "if you have not agreed to my terms, I will take de cash and move on to one of your competitahs. Dere is a chance I won't leave dis building standing when I go."

Up in the third floor ballroom, Kwabena turns his eyes just so, until he can see the shadow cast by the thug who holds a gun to the back of his head. "Nine... eight... seven..."

Duckie, laughing, slams his cigar-wielding hand down into the table, then gestures with his other toward the thug behind Kwabena. "Seriously? You listening to this guy?" Duckie leans forward, glaring at the African. "If you think I'm gonna risk my neck for you, you got somethin' else, pal."

"... five... four..."

"You know your name showed up on the NSA lists?" Duckie leans back into his chair, shaking his head. "You're one crazy, son of a-"

--BANG!--

At the explosive discharge of a gun, The Ghost's pace hurries, two steps at a time. He's still invisible, and still phased, but he's hurrying now, his breath probably heard if he passes too close to anyone. He saw the gunshot, but...well, he'd been hired to locate, and told specifically NOT to make contact. Granted, he already hadn't followed the letter of his instructions from his employer;(That would be Magneto for those just joining us); He had already reported this case, his instructions from Genosha's new Imperator, and his intention of hopefully using this as his "in" with said Imperator, all in the name of National, or heck even International Security. Yep. John Carmichal, Private Dick was also a freelance SHIELD agent.

The gun behind Kwabena was, in fact, discharged. The bullet ended up piercing a hole in Duckie's desk. Only a small tuft of smoke signifies that it went right through Kwabena's head.

It's not entirely clear whether the thug shot first, or if Kwabena swept his arm behind and grabbed the thug's arm first. Either way, the African spins to his feet, engaging in a brief struggle with the beefy greaser behind him.

Three more gunshots fill the room, causing Duckie to scramble yet further back from his desk. He dives to the floor as the bullets go awry, putting two holes into the ballroom walls and shattering a window.

The scuffle ends with the thug in Kwabena's clutches. One arm holds the thug in a choke hold, the other holds the thug's gun to his own head. Kwabena's finger is holding the thug's finger against the trigger, which serves to freak the thug out even further.

Backing up, Kwabena turns and glares at the other three men who stand with their pistols drawn. His eyes dance from one to the other, before he leans toward his captive's ear. "Tell dem to get out."

"G-go!" cries the captive thug. "Get out! All of you! NOW!"

The Ghost doesn't dive for cover. He's not solid. Anything coming his way (unless it's a ball of high energy) is gonna pass right through him. He's confident in his safety. He reaches up gently touching a small hidden button on his mask, causing the lenses in the mask to begin recording video, which is fed through micro-fiber in his "uniform" (costume in the old days) to a small MP4 recorder in his belt. He'd outfitted himself with all kinds of wonderful modern high and hypertech since he'd joined the modern day world. His uniform was made of unstable molecules, so he didn't have to worry about any embarrassing clothing malfunctions, but, it was also armored against small arms, and was flame retardant. His mask had been updated too with all the nifty modern gadgetry of the modern super-hero, sensors, etc. So he was loaded for surveilance, and of course, being able to be only a few feet away from the situation unseen, unfelt, and HOPEFULLY unnoticed, he's able to capture the action in stunning detail.

He remains still, watching, checking from time to time to make sure nobody's manageing to get the drop on Odame. Guy might be a dirtbag, but nobody deserved to get shot in the back. He was a friend of Jocelyn's too, which meant John would watch his back, even if he had to do so discreetly. He quietly grabs his new gun, modern marvel that it was, sliding it out of its holster, and thumbing the stun settings to "Drop a full grown rhino" or at least the equivelant. His gun shot balls of electricity designed to stop, and incapacitate (but not kill) whomever he shot. He preferred it to his .45 which was in the other holster. It was less messy.

Soon enough, the other three thugs are making their way down the stairs and past John. The Ghost goes unnoticed, mostly because these are just hired goons, at best former military, enlisted, at worst crooked cops who got kicked off the force years ago.

There were much less painful and safer ways to handle this situation. Kwabena would have much preferred to choke out his captive in a way that would ensure his safety. However, in this situation, it remained imperative that Duckie wasn't able to blatantly figure out his mutagene abilities.

And so, with a pull of one arm and the swinging of another, Kwabena cracks the thug's pistol against his own skull, then drops him in a heap on the floor.

Gun in hand, the Africa approaches Duckie. "Crazy... son of a bitch?" he says, completing Duckie's sentence for him. He points the gun at himself indicatively, then swings it back around to point it at Duckie. "Dumb son of a bitch."

Duckie's hands go up into the air. "Jesus, Odame!" he spits. "Point that thing somewhere else!"

Stuffing the handgun just beneath his waistband, Kwabena reaches down and hefts Duckie to his feet with a grunt. Snarling, he marches Duckie across the room and pins his back against the ballroom wall, very close to the stairwell in which John hides. "I like you, Duckie, but you need to learn some few mannahs."

"Cops are gonna be here any minute, man," breathes Duckie. "You better hit the road!"

"You pay off de cops," spits Kwabena. "So dey turn a blind eye to you, your opahation, and all de illegal drugs passing through your club downstairs." He roughs Duckie by the shoulders, slamming him into the wall again. "Do we have a deal, or am I turning dis opahration into de FBI?"

Ok. The Ghost is starting to like this Odame's style. He still had no idea what the mutant was doing here, nor really what the man's abilities were...but he liked the fact that the guy had this "Ducky's" number. In fact he barely stifles a quiet chuff of a chuckle before he realizes that he's "not here", and goes silent again. Shit...shit shit shit. Hope nobody was paying too close attention. He creeps ever so silently away from where he was standing just in case, keeping an eye on the stairs in case some wiseguy gets a bright idea, and keeping the other on Odame, and his playmate.

Duckie is quick to answer. "Okay, okay! We got a deal! I'll have your stuff here within the hour, and really, it shouldn't take you any longer than that to do the dirty deed down in Covington!"

"What dirty deed?" presses Kwabena.

"You see that thumb drive on my desk? 5417 Greenup. Second floor. Just put it in the guy's desktop for five seconds, then smash it up somewhere."

Unrelenting, Kwabena glowers at Duckie, but he doesn't speak a word.

"He's... he's some local private eye! The thumb drive has a program, it's gonna send me everything he's got, so I can stay one step ahead of him!"

Kwabena shakes his head and releases Duckie with a single shove back into the wall. "You ah one squirrely bastahd, Duckie," answers Kwabena. He walks over to Duckie's desk, snatches up the thumb drive, then waggles it in the air. "One hour, Duckie. One hour."

Fortunately for the Silver Ghost, all of this conversation has covered up any noise made by their invisible surveyor.

The Ghost breaths a quiet sigh of relief that he wasn't noticed. Okay, only a little relief. The truth was he hated surveilance work. He was an action man more than anything, and if Odame wasn't busting this guy's chops, Carmichal likely would have been had he reason. Ducky seemed like a real slimeball. When The Ghost got back to Gotham he'd have to do some digging on the guy, and forward whatever he found to the Cincinatti community (be it the police, the dick Odame was being asked to screw over, or some other do-gooder he could find out about. Heck maybe Carmichal'd have to come back here later personally, and fix Ducky's little red wagon.

It would seem Odame's done some kind of deal with Ducky though, so that means he sticks with Odame. Heck he might have to keep tailing the guy until he lands where-ever he's planning on landing. By the time he got back to New York, Odame could very well have been wherever The Ghost finds out he's going, and already be gone again. That meant John was in it for the long-haul. Hmmmm wonder how he might manage to insert himself in Odame's plans without all the sneaking around....?

Passing right by the invisible man, Kwabena heads down the stairs, taking the conventional way out of this decrepit building. As he goes down the flights, the gun comes apart piece by piece, leaving parts clattered across each floor until he's out in the alleyway between buildings.

Having left his motorcycle at home, Kwabena had surrendered himself to dealing with a rental. He climbs into the four-door sedan, rolls down the window, and eyes the 'No Smoking' sign on the sun-visor with a smirk while lighting a cigarette. Then, he fires the engine and rolls the car into a U-Turn, heading south on Vine Street.

The Ghost is a shadow to the dark skinned man as he exits the building. HIS shadow to be precise. Moving quietly but staying close, he follows him down, and out, and then to his car. As Shift gets into his rental, The Ghost...for lack of any better ideas, slides through the closed rear door, sitting himself in the back seat, still invisible, still mostly phased (enough not to fall out of the car at least). Dammit...and the man's having a smoke, which makes HIM want one too....badly. VERY badly. He grits his teeth though, and suffers through it, wanting SO much to join the man in that smoke.

Funny how something like a cigarette can make one really examine his options. It is at this moment that John Carmichal, AKA The Ghost is doing just that. Sit here, silent, unnoticed, unhindered, and trail his target (whom he just happens to be riding with) unobtrusively, or...reveal himself, and hope he doesn't screw his chances of finishing this case successfully (or at least mostly successfully. That Wit-Sec mutant is gonna cut into his pay a bit). Finally addiction wins out over will, and John who has been silent thus far speaks (still invisible of course) "That was a hell of a thing, Odame...." he says from the backseat "Don't suppose I could bum a smoke off ya could I?" he asks as he slowly fades into view, though for safety's sake still remaining partially phased.

The thing is, Kwabena has no desire to go to Covington. The rental car has turned off the main drag of gentrified Vine Street, leaving the suddenly shiny entertainment district behind for the back alleyways that all of the suburbanites, hipsters, and yuppies refuse to acknowledge. The junkie lying behind a dumpster, half dead, he pays no mind. Parking the car, he takes another drag of his cigarette, blowing its remains out the window before reaching over toward a satchel that sits on the passenger's seat.

The voice behind him draws a sudden stop to Kwabena's motions. His eyes dart to the rear view mirror and there they remain until a face forms. The African's lips part, ready to form words, but instead he keeps quite silent. Who is this guy, what is he doing here, and how the hell did he get into his car? All of those things go unspoken, for first, Kwabena has to determine if this person is even real.

Into his leather jacket he goes, producing a soft pack of smokes. One of them is tapped out, and he drifts his arm back over the driver's seat. However, the way he's gripping the cigarette, with most of it against his palm and only the tip of its filter exposed, it would be very difficult for John and Kwabena's fingers to at least touch.

It's the touch Kwabena is looking for to answer his question.

The Ghost reaches out, pauses, and his head tilts "Do me a favor, will ya, and keep any thoughts of funny business on the back burner. I ain't here to screw with you, and I ain't here to put the screws to you either. I don't care what you're doing, why you're doing it, or any of that nonsense." he says "So I'm gonna take that smoke...nice and gentle...and then, if you want...I'll even answer the questions I'm sure you're asking yourself right now." he says pausing another beat or two waiting to see if the man does anything out of the way. Finally he takes the smoke, his hand going solid only long enough to do so, before phasing again, along with the smoke, but not Odame's hand.

"Thanks Fella...." he says one hand going to his mask. It's difficult to tell if the man's solid, or not, because at the moment he LOOKS solid enough even if he might not be. The hand at his mask lifts it enough to reveal his chin, and mouth, and nose. He pops the smoke into his lips, and produces an antique looking zippo. This he flicks twice before it lights, and lights his smoke, all the while watching the man in the front seat. He takes a long drag off the smoke, and then exhales in a long sigh "Never much liked these filtered smokes...." he sighs "But when you're out...there's nothing like 'em." he says.

All the while, Kwabena's hand doesn't budge. Neither do his eyes. They are locked in place, looking at the reflection in his rear view mirror as he silently waits.

Once he feels the touch of another against the tip of his finger, his first question is answered. This, of course, answers a number of other questions in turn. The person in his back seat is not (necessarily) a figment of his imagination. He wields metahuman ability or some pretty damned advanced technology. He knew how to find Kwabena, and knew how to track him all this way, to the back seat of a car rented by a person whose name is in no way associated with the name 'Kwabena Odame'.

Really, all things considered, that leaves but one question unanswered.

After taking another drag of his cigarette, Kwabena reaches back for that satchel. Out comes a small laptop computer. He lifts the lid, quickly calls up a few programs, then inserts the thumb drive taken from Duckie's desk. With the cigarette now perched between his teeth, Kwabena uses both hands to stab commands into the laptop in rapid fire motions. His question comes out as if a second thought to what he's really doing. He isn't even looking toward the back seat when he speaks up.

"Who hired you?"

The Ghost takes another drag, and speaks "Y'know what the problem with filtered butts is?" he says apparently ignoring Shift's question for the moment "You don't really get the full flavor. Now...take a Lucky Strike filterless...back in the old days you couldn't get them any other way." he says "Filterless, or roll 'em yourself." he says "if you wanted a filter, you had to buy one of those stupid looking ritzy ones the playboys used. Of course I always thought a fella was kind of a nance if he used one myself. But whadda I know, I'm just a mug." he says.

Another couple beats and he finally speaks again "Who hired me ain't something I'm at liberty to share." he says "What I can tell you though is that I'm a friend of a friend, who coincidentally asked me to let her know if I managed to track you down. She's concerned." he says "But getting back to 'who hired' me." he says "I'm breakin' the rules here a little, kid. I wasn't supposed to make contact. Just get a location and report back. Fact is though...you're too quick to manage it in a timely fashion. I had intended just to stick with you until you landed somewhere...but then you had to go and remind me that I ran out of smokes on the train in." he says "God I needed this..." he groans softly. "Channel will be glad you're not dead." he finishes

It would be impossible for Kwabena to know who John is and where (ahem, when) he came from. So, really, the African can only conclude that John must be some kind of cop. DEA, FBI, even Homeland Security or SHIELD. The latter of which, well... he had been in Nick Fury's office not very long ago.

In a way, the Ghost's diatribe about cigarettes is a good reason for Kwabena to finish his damned work. He could smell a distraction better than he could smell authentic African food, and it's all the time he needs to finish stabbing his commands into the laptop's keyboard.

"I like de way dey smoke," he answers in a nonchalant fashion, before he removes the thumb drive and closes the laptop, replacing it back inside the satchel.

Now that thats taken care of...

Kwabena swivels around and gives the masked figure his full attention. "Channel didn't hire you," he retorts. Oh, that serves more than one purpose. It lets the Ghost know that Kwabena won't fall for such diversionary tricks. Jocelyn could handle herself, but she wasn't the type of person to hire a person like this. Hell, she could have just tracked him down herself. It also lets the Ghost know that Kwabena isn't exactly accepting that answer.

That thumb drive is still in the palm of his hand. He closes his fingers around it, and a the cabin of the car is filled with the quiet sound of a few pops and crackles. Kwabena's jawline tightens just so, and when he releases his grip on the device, it is revealed to have been smashed and ruined.

"Well, congratulations," quips the African. "You screwed up." He makes to look away, only to take the cigarette from between his teeth and hold it out the window again. The crushed remains of the thumb drive are in that same hand, and they drop out onto the muddy brickwork of the alleyway without preamble. "Am I going to have to tell Channel about your death?" he asks, then offers a touch of clarification. "How much trouble ah you in, now dat you've... 'made contact'?"

The African smirks.

The Ghost's lips smirk as Kwabane speaks, and he takes another drag off his smoke as he sits there. "Two things, sunshine." he says "One: I didn't say Channel hired me. I said she will be glad to know you're not dead." he says "I told ya I was a friend of a friend. I hate droppin' names but that's one I can drop." he says "And Two: While I don't doubt for an instant that you're capable of killing me, your success in that case ain't a foregone conclusion." he says and pauses, takes another drag, and grunts "Okay three things...Three: don't make threats kid, just do what you're gonna do, or don't. Threatening people's real good for situations like that one back there with your pal Ducky, but the fact that I'm here, this close to you should tell you I ain't that easily cowed." he says

He falls silent for a moment considering the other question "Trouble? Fella, I'm only in trouble if my client decides to take issue with the fact that I made contact....and that's provided the client even finds out about it." he says "I won't tell if you don't. Provided you and the client ever cross paths." he says "And if the client takes issue" he shrugs "They do. If not, and they know....it's a matter of a few c-notes. I'll live." he says sounding unconcerned.

So many things to be learned from misleading someone! It's enough to make Kwabena damn near smile, but instead, he just maintains that smirk on his face. "You will," he agrees with a nod of his head, then actually goes so far as to gesture toward the figure in his back seat with the lit cigarette. "Because I wasn't threatening you."

Kwabena flicks the cigarette out of the window, where it flips through the air and snuffs out in the wet mud. Almost immediately afterward, Kwabena's clothing goes haywire, as if it were being blown by a fan set -inside- the driver's seat. The African, it would seem, has suddenly turned into a cloud of black smoke. That cloud leaps up against the ceiling of the car, lands into the seat next to the Ghost, and suddenly collects into the shape of a man again.

Kwabena, also, has a 'costume' made of unstable molecules. While his street clothes fall onto the driver's seat, he turns and looks at the Ghost now from where he sits in the back seat. "Here's de thing. I really don't like being followed, watched, tracked, or fucked with in any way." He tilts his head downward, studying the mask. "You also seem like a decent enough pehson. You probably don't know who I am, how I work, or why. Your employer, howevah, does. So, we appear to have a bit of a problem." He gestures with one hand. "I just... can't... let you go. Not unless I have some few reassurances. One, really."

His eyes return to the Ghost's mask, and they are glaring. "-A name-."

The Ghost, for his part, didn't know what all Shift could do, but he knew he could do SOMETHING, and probably something pretty impressive. Kinda like what he'd just done. He'd prepared for it, so isn't thrown, startled, or even surprised when the main arrives next to him. He just sticks his hand out through the closed window, and drops the smoke. "Mine? That's easy, chum." he says "Silver Ghost. Ghost for short." he says, and then almost casually turns his body, and steps out of the car as if the door was open. He bends at the waste poking his head through the window again. "And who said anything about you letting me go?" he asks, his lips smirking before he reaches through the window again and pulls his mask down hiding his face completely again.

"Here's the thing, Odame. I was hired to locate you. The client expressed concern that you might be held captive, or be in some kind of distress." he says "now...frankly I don't buy that. The client seemed far too keen to track you down. For what reason? I don't know, I didn't ask, and it ain't my place to question." he says "I got my own reasons for doing this." he says "Now we can play this game where you wave your black smokey johnson at me, and I wave my white ghosty johnson at you, or..." he says "We can play it smart. Both of us can get what we want." he says "What I want is to prove I'm worth having around to my client." he says "What you want is to figure out who I work for, and why I'm tracking you. So how about we, you and me, decide what I tell 'em, and maybe we both get what we want?"

Something akin to playfulness flashes through Kwabena's eyes when Ghost phases through the car door. It is, really, akin to waving his white ghosty johnson around.

That joke gets a snort of laughter. Good, honest laughter.

As if playing the dance further still, Kwabena closes his eyes and, with the sound of 'poof!', becomes black smoke again. The smoke bends around the front seat, out the open window, and reforms next to Silver Ghost, holding his pack of smokes. Seems he 'picked' them up on the way.

One more is offered to John, only this one has the filter ripped off. A bit crude, but effective. The other he retains for himself. "Captive, or in distress," he muses. "I'll tell you, anyone who knows me well enough knows that's a load of bull. Whomevah dis is, dey want to find me, and dey're willing to dick around with it, too." He pauses to light the cigarette, oddly enough, with a similarly beat up zippo. "I could throw some fake info at you, see how fah dat lie goes and whose trees it shakes. Or I could just, you know. Tell you de truth."

That glimmer of mirth returns once again, and without missing a beat, Kwabena spits out the absolute, honest-to-God truth.

"I am an unregistered mutant trying to book passage to Genosha. I do not want my name to be associated with dis journey in any way, and I have not made efforts to approach de one called 'Magneto' while he is here, because I do not want to put him in de position of trying to collect me. It is far more political hassle dan it is worth, asking him to take me back dere, especially with all of dis... U.N. National Security crap. So, I figure, I save him de hassle by getting to Genosha on my own." Grinning, he gestures toward Silver Ghost with his cigarette. "You don't think you could put Duckie's work through de ringah for me? Make sure it's going to pass TSA without issue?"

The Ghost stands up again turning to face Shift as he appears next to him. He takes the smoke, his hand once more solid as he does so. This he tucks away somewhere. He was good for now. However, he listens to the man, and beneath his mask (not that it's visible mind you) he grins a bit listening "Fella...." he says, an edge of laughter in his voice "You're barkin' up the wrong tree with that request." he says to asking if he can check out the paperwork Odame had just gotten. "Listen...since we're in a sharing mood, I'm gonna be just as honest with ya." he says "I already know you're name, and I already know you're a mutant." he says "And I happen to know you're friends with Channel, because *I* am friends with Channel. That's no line." he says

At that he reaches up, takes off his hat, and removes his mask. Fuckit. All in, or go home. Cards on the table. "The name's John Carmichal. I'm a private dick." he says "As for you trying to get to Genosha...don't bother." he says "My advice: let 'em come to you." he says sighing. Cards on the table right? "Magneto hired me to track you down." he says "I didn't tell ya that, because I never made contact, deal?" he says

"Personally I doubt a mug like Magneto's gonna worry too much about U.N. National Security crap anyway. He told me to be discreet...." he shrugs "Seems I did a bang-up job of it until today." he says self affacingly "So here's my proposal. You find a hole to hang your smoke in." he says "I report back to Magneto." he says "He makes his own arrangements for your travel, and we both get what we want." he says "Find your hole, cool your heels, and let me report back with a location. Done. You never saw me, we never had this conversation, and everyone gets what they want." he says reaching inside his coat, and pulling out an antique WWII era flask, unscrewing the lid, and taking a swig. This, he then offers to Shift as if to seal their 'deal'.

As soon as John takes off his mask, Kwabena makes a note to memorize the fellow's face. This whole exchange certainly didn't turn out how either of them wanted, but given the moves John has made and the way he talks, he's certainly far from ending up on Kwabena's 'shit list'. Quite the contrary.

The fact that he was hired by Magneto? Major points. Kwabena's eyebrow even shoots up into the air curiously at that, and he even nods his head, seeming to visibly relax a bit.

"Don't bothah," he echoes, turning a bit sour. "Dat explains why it's provin' so difficult to book passage dere." He draws in a deep breath and seems to resign to the plan. "Good thinking," he offers, verbally agreeing with the proposal. "Considahing I am trying to make contact with Magneto, and I'd hate for you to end up on his shit list? I think we have ourselves a deal. You tell him you tracked me through Cincinnati to Louisville, where I booked a plane ticket with my new identity to San Diego. De name of de place I'll be holed up in is called 'Hotel Paradise'. Don't let de name fool you, it's a shit hole of a hostel where people usually go when dey don't want to be found."

That said, he reaches out to accept the flask. It's icing on the cake, Kwabena's opinion of this guy, but given the fact he's a smoker and is offering a flask? It's almost like he's looking at an echo of himself. Taking the flask, he drops a few swigs down his gullet, then offers it back with a satisfied expression.

"Oh, and next time you run into Channel?" He pauses, as if considering just how to phrase it. "Tell her I said, no hard feelings. I'm just... doing what I have to do."

Carmichal just grins as the man takes the flask, and drinks the supremely aged Scotch inside. As he hands it back, Carmichal takes it, stuffs it into his pocket again and nods "Gonna have to leave a trail someone could follow. Not someone thick in the noggin mind you...but one *I* could follow...." he says "Maybe not quite as difficult to track you this far. Honestly I thought this lead was a dud." he says "But I check 'em all...you know, just in case." he says and now, digs out that smoke he'd tucked away "I may just call Channel and ask for a ride home." he says "it's a long ride back to Gotham." he says idly. "I'd give you my card, but we never met." he quips with a smirk as he lights the smoke.

"I'll deliver the message on the quiet though." he says "I don't think she wants Magneto's attention." he says "Probably doesn't want anyone's attention to be straight." he says "She ain't registered either, I'm sure." he says "And if we happen to cross paths around the boss....you don't know me." he says idly.

"But if you don't mind my asking...why DO you want to go to Genosha?" he asks.

"You tracked me dis far," notes Kwabena. "I'll make it a littah easier, but not too much." The name, plus Gotham City, gives Kwabena enough with which to track Carmichal down if it ever came to it. He offers a grin, not seeming to mind that there's no exchange of cards. "We nevah met," he agrees.

Kwabena is about to turn aside, when Channel comes back up. That gives him pause. Taking a drag of that cigarette, he glances back toward John in a speculative way. "She doesn't. Keep it dat way." It's not a threat, at least not one aimed at John personally. More of a warning.

The last question, however, is proving a difficult one to answer. For a moment, Kwabena almost seems... confused.

"Let's just say I have some few loose ends to tie up."

Carmichal nods. If he has any opinions about it he keeps them to himself. He takes a drag off his smoke, and puts on his hat again. He looks around and grunts. "Channel's got no worries from me." he says "A good dick is like a good spy. Full o' questions, but very few answers." he says "Those he keeps like a treasure. They're his, and his alone. Go tie up your loose ends kid. I'll get the ball rollin'. Bossman'll be looking to hear from me soon." he says "And nice moves with Ducky back there....you want I should ruin his day for you, or is that not a bridge you want burned?" he asks smirking a little.

A cough comes from Kwabena, and he looks surprised while reaching to his throat. The 72 year aged Scotch seems to have finally caused its afterburn, which was not expected. "Damn," he emotes. "How old was dat stuff? Wait." He removes his hand, motioning toward John not to answer. "Keep your answers."

Smirk.

"Nah," he says, while turning back toward the car. "I've already got Duckie by de balls. He does me right, I do him right. He fails to come through, and you'll see him on de evening news."

Pulling the car door open, he makes to enter. "Nice meeting you, John Carmichal. Watch your six."

Carmichal simply smirks back and nods "Always do." he says, stuffing his mask into his coat pocket, and turning, moving to walk out of the alleyway as Shift makes to drive away. Now....buy some new clothes, or just put on the mask, and flash his BSA badge on the train? Screw it. The badge has got to have SOME benefits to it. He puts on his mask, and makes his way to the main street to try and hail a cab. Yeah like they're gonna stop for a masked detective in this part of town HAH!