2012-09-21 Ready When You Are

News travels quickly in Madripoor, and if one knows how to separate the lies and boasts from the truth, one can even glean useful information from that news. Information like Russian expat/crime boss Anatoli Piskunov's botched attempts to murder some redhead in broad daylight - in the /States/, no less - drawing the would-be victim to the country for--

Well, nobody can really say for sure why she's here, but rumours abound. Since landing a couple of days ago, Logan's had to weed through them to try and piece things together for himself; many dead ends and wasted hours later, he managed to piece together that a sit down between Anatoli and a proxy is on the table. A few words in the right ears, and another bit of news - a message, really, meant for a rather particular set of ears - circulates throughout Madripoor:

Patch - a liaison between the crime bosses who run so much of the island - wants a meeting at the Princess Bar.

The Bar is every bit as rough and decrepit as the Lowtown slums surrounding it, but regardless of its patrons proclivities, it's safe--especially while Patch is in town. The decor is simple; a few wooden tables, some of which have chair sst up around them, most of wooden bar(one end was roughly snapped off by /something/ and has yet to be replaced) with stools lined up behind it, and a few old paintings whose frames are caked with black and yellow grime. Patch himself is leaning against the bar with his eye on the door and a mug of beer in one hand; he's wearing a brown bomber jacket, black t-shirt and blue jeans. There are perhaps a dozen other patrons - all male, almost all criminals many times over - drinking and carousing throughout the place.

It says a great deal about Patch's reputation--and that of the Princess--that the lady herself is willing to arrive there in person, in the evening as things are getting interesting the shadows of Madripoor. She arrives in a weathered old black Bentley, the veteran of various attempts on the lives of her clients in this part of the world.

Bethany makes no attempt to blend in. She doesn't play at being a tough, she proves it when it's necessary and nothing more. Her two bodyguards stop by the doors, a pair of unassuming men as weathered as the Bentley. They'd fit in here if it weren't for the good suits. One of them hands a gift off to one of Patch's people. An old tradition some still keep--whatever it is, likely rare cigars, is in a beautifully carved and gilded red wood case inlaid with ivory.

Bethany is wearing white, of all colours, a clinging silk dress, sleeveless with a dangerously low neckline and a tattered chiffon hem that flutters around her calves as she walks. She carries nothing and her jewelry is only a few gold bangles that nearly any decent working girl could afford. That she feels free to go where she pleases is wealth enough for her to display right now.

She knows exactly who she's looking for--she doesn't even scan the room before she makes for where Patch is waiting at the bar.

Patch's 'people' are a couple of scrawny, younger guys who were playing dice against the side of the bar when he arrived; it's standard practice to have bodyguards, advisors, /someone/ in the vicinity for sit downs like this, so he usually makes do with whoever he can find on short notice. One of them takes the box and gives it a good, long look before being snapped out of it by a sharp smack to the chest from his buddy.

One by one, heads turn and eyes are glued to Bethany as she enters the bar. Women are uncommon enough around here; women who look like /that/ are nigh on mythic. As she passes the last table between the Patch and the door, a middle-aged drug dealer licks his lips and starts getting up, intent on following her right up to the bar... until he is snapped out of it by a hard look and a thin frown from Patch.

"Evening," the wild-haired man grunts as he shifts his eyes from the sullenly sitting drug dealer to Beth. With a vague gesture to the unmanned bar behind him, he adds, "You need anything, ask; otherwise, I reckon we've got business t' tend to." After a beat - and an appraising look at the extraction specialist, he lowly adds, "Reckon you're a little overdressed, at that.".

"Forgive me if it's inappropriate, it's what I'd planned to wear this evening. I prefer for people meet me as I am when possible." If it's what Bethany would wear--or, tonight, her decoy would wear it--for dinner with a friend, then it's certainly good enough for her to wear to meet a business acquaintance at his establishment. She holds out a hand to Patch. "Thank you for seeing me. We do have business--or you seem to think we do, I hear. So, we should talk. That's all I need."

Patch takes offered hand, and after a firm handshake he draws that arm back to rest his elbow against the bar. "Fair enough," he says of her attire--or her good faith--or maybe both. He tips his head and the mug back with that, setting the latter aside with a heavy 'thunk' once it's empty.

"This thing between you'n Piskunov," he then says in a low, even voice, "whatever it is, it needs to come to some kind've a head. Before body one hits the ground. I dunno the beef; I don't care. He's a moron with a lotta other morons workin' for him; it ain't good for business." As he reaches the end of that declaration, his eyes begin to shift towards the door, and his nostrils flare; outside, the guy with the box has cracked the lid, though another smack and a few terse words are enough to squelch his curiosity for the nonce.

"'ppreciate the gift, by the way," he murmurs as he sets his eyes on Beth again. "Good taste."

"You're very welcome. I hope you enjoy it." Bethany's smile is warm. "I do apologize for bringing this nonsense back into your territory. I'm trying to resolve it quietly but nearly shooting the grannies in my Tai Chi club does warrant a certain response. I'm almost more annoyed that he's so damn cheap." Her nose wrinkles with annoyance.

"Let me be blunt, he could be dead right now several times over--and his pain in the ass wife besides, because I know she's not going to let this go. I don't mind doing it as a rule." Bethany leans one elbow on the bar, mirroring Patch's pose except she also laces her fingers together in front of her, graceful, pale hands loose and quiet. "I'm always willing to put in the work to avoid hurting anyone else, of course. The thing is, I'd simply rather not in this case unless the situation is hopeless. I suppose you're in a better position to judge that than I am."

Wrinkles crease Patch's brow at the idea of taking the Piskunovs out, and they don't really go anywhere even after she makes it clear that violence isn't Plan A.

"He dies, an' someone else - probably one'a the aforementioned morons - will take his place, an' six months later, we'll be right back here," he succinctly replies, pushing off of the bar to work his way around it. It's a story almost as old as the Island itself. "Or I'll be here, an' you'll be in the ground; one or the other." Clinking glass punctuates that final prediction as he eases a dark, dusty-covered, unlabelled bottle out from between two identical vessels, and then he moves on to pouring the whiskey inside into a couple of tumblers; when he turns to set one in front of Beth, he adds: "'s just the way it is, darlin'; lucky for both of us, you seem to have a hell of a lot more brains than they do." He slowly exhales and wraps his hands around his own tumbler without making any motion to drink it. "Long as we're on the same page: I can get you in a room with 'em; talk this out like adults."

"Thank you." Bethany takes the glass and lifts it in a little salute before she drinks. That's more of a statement of trust than showing up. She can protect herself against base violence but intoxicants and poisons are something else. Still, there's little anxiety in her and she seems, to all the senses, as though she's in an excellent mood and enjoying the company.

"I'm aware of the cycle. And the consequences. I'd rather stay alive, I have things to do. I've never taken action like that on my own behalf before--" Not that anyone would know if Bethany had but there you go, rumours about her husband's death to the contrary. "--and I'd prefer not to. What extremes we'll go to on principle and what acts wisdom would recommend are usually separated by a yawning abyss we should only cross if we don't plan to come back. So I would be very grateful for your assistance. Just tell me where and when and what, if anything, I can do for you to express that gratitude I mentioned."

Somewhere between 'Women' and 'Women who look and dress like Beth' are 'Women who are able to hang around for more than a couple of minutes without freaking out' on the spectrum of people who rarely visit the Princess Bar. Maybe it's because she's got two bodyguards outside, maybe not. Maybe it's /him/ being here to guarantee that nobody acts up, maybe not; regardless of the reason behind it, her calm demeanor doesn't escape Patch's notice, and neither does her offer.

"Mmm," he lowly voices in reply before tossing his drink back. Despite the bar - and the unassuming bottle - it's a well-aged drink. Expensive--not as much so as her cigars, but certainly not cheap.

"We'll cross that bridge later," he quietly suggests once the whiskey is gone. He doesn't refill his own glass, but he does fetch the bottle and set it beside Beth's, just in case; afterwards, he leans against the edge of the counter with both forearms. "I'm sure I'll think'a somethin'. I can get the word out on the street; we can get this nonsense sorted by the end'a tomorrow, assumin' he knows what's good for 'im."

Bethany is relaxed because she's in motion. Taking action even if she's standing still just now. The bodyguards are mostly there to watch her back and hand her weapons. Places like this make her content--the rules are clear. If someone acts against her, she can defend herself with all her resources and without hesitation. Simple. Comforting. Final, no matter which way the pendulum swings. One can relax under those conditions, so much as she ever does.

She finishes her drink and offers Patch her hand again, then leans in to give him a kiss on each cheek in the European fashion. Her slight accent, undisguised, is absolutely coloured by speaking German as her first language, and her diction is straight out of a very expensive private school. "Let me know. You know where I'm staying." She's made no secret of it. "I'm ready when you are."