Lux
Denver. Historic Denver. Downtown Denver. Denver where there are tall tall buildings of glass and steel all polished and ascendant. The best of dark and bright. An urban center is nothing without these pretties to gleam at night and twinkle. Fire against the dark.
Denver where there are old old buildings that wanted bad to be gilded age opulence once upon a time. Façades that have weathered Prohibition and fire, crooked politicians and cattle-herders, bringing Art Nouveau glory and grandeur to the nouveau riche with coaldust beneath their fingernails.
Denver, Downtown. Thursday night. An alley, cutting between a row of businesses, some of which are bars and restaurants, trendy but not too-too, a barber shop against all odds, the back-door to that ajar and unlocked, and a little independent bookstore that caters to a certain interest set. The alley itself is anonymous; so anonymous that nobody should really have any reason to be there at this hour of night.
Unless, of course, they were on somebody's trail.
Laurel was hired to find and bring-in Jeffrey Cave, father of three, husband of one (for now; divorce is in the air), who skipped a substantial bail after his father-in-law put up the money, and a tip put him in this area. In one of these bars. Jeffrey Cave: He even looked smug in his pictures. The side-burns, maybe. The air he fucking wears those side-burns with, like it just infects his smile. He's smiling in the picture the father-in-the-law put up. He's looking satisfied and scared both in his booking pictures, and tired, and washed-out.
The back-door to one of these businesses opens, cutting a slender slice of light out. The paint of the door is faded, and says 'NO ENTRANCE - GO AROUND FRONT.' There is no handle on the door, a service entrance or a fire exit or a mixture of both, and it's at the top of a small spill of cement stairs. Lux moves a brick clearly there for this purpose in place to hold the door open, then takes one step down the stairs and leans against the façade.
Clearly, smoke break time.
Laurel Hensley
Another night, another job. Well, okay…let's be fair. Calling this one a "job" is akin to calling a defanged baby garter snake a "threat." It's an insult to the descriptor and anyone who respects the word. If there's two things that Laurel Hensley respects, it's a job and a threat. She particularly likes it when the two coincide.
Sadly, that's not the case today, and she's instead been following some lowlife little shit named Jeffrey Cave who was supposed to show up to court on charges of illegally discharging a firearm. That class C felony cost Jeff's dad-in-law a $5,000 bail, and then the little shit didn't show up. So now it was Laurel's job to find the sad little shitstain and drag him in so they could haul his ass into court, Mr. Jackson can get $4,500 back and she can take her 10% commission
And here's the funny part. No one else wanted to take this because the guy was considered "potentially armed and dangerous." It wasn't even his fucking gun, it was a friend's that he had taken so that he could try and hold up a liquor store. But before he'd even got to the store the gun went off (important lesson, children: utilize your safety) and poor Jeffrey had the misfortune of it doing so right in front of a cop. So she was fairly sure that this wasn't going to get violent…not that she ever just assumed. Dead people assume that asshats arrested on a firearm-related charge won't be armed. And Laurel isn't dead.
So it was an easy God-damned job, in her eyes. And hey, it's work and while Laurel really didn't need the money at the moment (or ever, really) she did appreciate the work. She just wished it was a bit more of a challenge.
So that's why she's making her way down this alley, having gotten information on her skip trace work that led her here. Laurel's just turning around the corner when the door ahead cracks and light peers out. The bounty hunter is rocking a pair of jeans and running shoes with a grey camisole underneath her leather jacket, hair pulled back out of her face. When you may or may not be getting in a gun fight, you don't want to have your hair getting in your line of sight. She cocks an eyebrow at the door, watching as she approaches and—
It's not her mark. "Sonuvabitch," she murmurs to herself, and moves to approach. She hates guys who hide in bars. They make things messy, because other people get involved. And Laurel relies on herself.
"Hey." She titles her chin up in a nod to Lux as she approaches. "Ask you a question?" She comes out of her pocket with the printed picture. "You seen this guy?"
Lux
Not Laurel's mark. Jeffrey Cave, where are you? This is Lux tonight: little black jacket, white collared shirt, the buttons done up negligently, jeans and boots. The accessories make it. The jacket's a classic. Timeless. Goes with everything. Rebel couture, don't you know? Beautiful thing, hair in a thick asymmetrical braid, this almost jaunty hat perched ontop.
Now. Lux's head was bowed as she took another step down the rill of stairs and away from the ajar-door. Took that step with her shoulder kissing the building's wall and gravity a flirtation of an idea. Took it with her head gracefully bowed while she took a pack of black & milds out've the pocket of her jacket. Then looked up as Laurel said hey, and offered the bounty hunter an echoing non-verbal tilt-of-the-chin.
"Sure."
...Her gaze turns inquiring, and so does the angle of her head. The way she carries herself: takes the final step onto the alley's concrete in order to close whatever distance has yet to be closed between herself and Laurel. The creature is leggy -- grace carries her through: it'd carry her through the day if the Day didn't hate her life the way you hate things that were yours when they're taken away.
She'll take the printed picture if Laurel will relinquish it, lashes sweeping low to darken the pale-fire crystal-green loveliness of her eyes and make them gloomy, make 'em really just belong to the fucking dark, and she looks at the picture for a long moment before her chin firms and she hands it back:
"Why?"
Looks up again, this flick of a glance which probably tells Laurel all she needs to know: the answer is yes. And Lux, well, she knows the answer's yes, knows 'Why?' is another way to say yes, and there's something wry behind the question.
Laurel Hensley
Why?, the pretty woman with the cigarette wants to know. They always want to know why. Or rather, let's clarify: they always think they want to know why. They see someone like Laurel holding out pictures and asking Have you seen him and they think there's a story there. And holy shit, do people love stories. They love to hear them and they love to retell them at work the next day, the story of the chick who was looking for the criminal and asked them (yes, them!) for help.
But in truth, they usually don't want to know why. Not most of them anyway. They want to believe that they want to know why, but in truth they've probably concocted some grand story. She's his long-lost niece and he's gone missing, or he's a member of the mob and she's an undercover FBI task force agent. The actual story either never compares to the truth or sends an unknowing ally straight into yelling for the mark, and then chases happen. And fights.
And she's already broken two pool cues over people's heads this month. And this month is only six days old. At this rate she should buy stock in whoever the fuck makes pool cues.
So Lux asks Why, and Laurel rolls her eyes. "'cause I'm here and I've got a picture of him and I'm showing you while asking if you've seen him. Which you clearly already have. Where is he?"
Lux
"I don't know you, so your 'I'm, I've, I'm' doesn't make for all that compelling a reason," Lux replies, corner of her mouth hooking up surprisingly sharply, surprisingly neatly. "So let's try it again: Why?"
"I'll tell you why I want to know. Because I'm nosy. And if you're going to tell him he's won the lottery, I'd feel just awful."
Laurel Hensley
God, I hate people.
And she really does. People are the worst…the absolute freaking WORST. Every time she has to deal with someone who wants to know why, she starts silently counting down in her head. Because it's supposed to calm you down, counting down. Near as she can tell, that old cliché is just a whole bunch of bullshit because she's never particularly calm when she hits zero.
The worst thing about people is this: she needs them sometimes. Lux is absolutely the person in power here, because she knows and Laurel needs to know. She doesn't like needing anyone, least of all someone who she doesn't know from Adam who's standing between her and a mark. It's an unknown equation, and that makes this all a pain.
She sighs. Counts down again…quickly this time. 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1. And she does her best to put on a smile.
"Okay, if you're game I'll tell you. He skipped bail on his dumbass soon-to-be former father-in-law and I'm the one who drew the short straw. Luckily I've got a nice short bus I can bring his mentally indigent ass in with, so he'll feel right at home."
She cocks an eyebrow. "Satisfied?"
Lux
Satisfied? "Sure."
The luminous edge of a smirk that is dissolving into the faint hint of a smile. The smile's a shadow, too. Almost concealed. Lux finds it easier to smile than Laurel does. Not because the story was that good or because Laurel is so engaging but because that's the way the light shifts. Because the idea of satisfaction.
Laurel doesn't look like most people's idea of a bounty hunter. There's no mullet or leather jacket. No fang necklace. No wannabe Bruce Willis squint; well, not quite. No Clint Eastwood jaw-clench... Well, not quite? And if Lux is making the comparisons, she keeps them to herself.
"Last I saw he was in a booth next bar down from this one. He wasn't alone. And his pack of assholes were drinking like Prohibition was coming back tomorrow and they meant to make sure not a drop would go to waste."
Laurel Hensley
"Motherfuck." The word comes with a deadpan look directly at the be-hatted rebellious thing in front of Laurel, as if to say You've got to be shitting me. However, she doesn't believe for a second that Lux is shitting her. She is 100% sure that Mister Camp is in there with a bunch of his idiot friends drinking enough to become a human processing system for picking things. And while Laurel isn't afraid of getting into a fight with a bunch of guys, she's also realistic. She can take a bunch of drunk assholes, but if other people get involved or a bar fight breaks out, she could be in serious trouble.
She looks down the hallway behind the open door thoughtfully. Then, slowly, her eyes track upward to the ceiling. And she smirks a bit, considering.
"Closer to the front or the back?"
Lux
Lux trades the pack of black & milds for a cheap gas-station lighter. The kind've lighter you pick up at a bar or while you're standing outside being social. The kind've lighter that you've never met full-of-fluid. Cigarillo in her left hand, between her middle-finger and index-finger. She's wearing a thumb ring, a dull metal. The lighter doesn't want to start. Unreliable. Like other things you pick up in bars, hey?
"Do you have - ?" Lux's voice is taut the seventh time the lighter still fails to start. So sad to disappoint. Instead of tossing it, she pockets the thing, and the lovely creature is not apparently one of those people who look up when they're thinking, trying to scavenge a memory, but is instead one of those people who looks at the person who's drawing the thing forth, though she doesn't stare in their eyes. Her mouth compresses again, thoughtful.
Then: "If the bar's here," she sketches a line with the toe of her boot, "and the front exit is here," tap-toe, "and the back's over here, opposite the front in a stunning turn of events," another tap, "then I'd say the booth was around here," and she points to the middle.
Follows it with a shrug. "It's blues dancing night."
Laurel Hensley
Lux needs a lighter and Laurel nods, reaching into her pocket to hand a Bic over. Hey, the chick started off as a pain but she's being a help so far, right? "Knock yourself out." She's already looking down, eyes tracing the invisible lines that the other woman's foot had demarcated as if they were still there. For all that Laurel's considering, she could well be envisioning a 3D scanned map of the whole location or a diorama. Laurel knows bar set-ups; there's only so much variation that comes into play. When you're serving drunk people, you want muscle memory to come into play when they're stumbling to where they think the bathrooms are. It's easier to cookie-cutter it than have to clean up puddles around the jukebox each night.
"Blues dancing night?" Her nose wrinkles. "Well, that's unfortunate. For them, anyway. No one should be subjected to fucking blues dancing night."
She frowns as she considers. Thoughts whizz through her head, options quickly thrown up and then discarded. It's interesting to see how quickly her mind works. She's not the most brilliant bee in the bonnet but she's far from stupid and she would appear to either have an powerful knowledge of tactics, or an impressive ability to brainstorn dumb ideas and quickly realize that they're dumb. It's kind of hard to tell one way or the other, because ultimately she comes up empty. All of her tricks and plans leave an element of uncertainty, and this isn't something she wants to leave up to chance.
"Keep the lighter if you want," she says with a shrug. "Unless you like trouble, I would wait a few before going back in."
A quick look at Lux, and a nod. It's not a smile, not friendliness. But it's grudging gratitude for the information. "Enjoy the cigarette," she says before she starts to walk inside the place.
Lux
Lux takes the Bic and lights the thing, at last. Then she enjoys it. Enjoys the taste of it. Enjoys breathing in, holding the [Apple] smoke in her mouth and exhaling. Enjoys how heavy the smoke is, too. But she watches how Laurel regards the ground: considering, calculating, plotting, and her own gaze is clear and considering and calculating, if not at the moment plotting.
Laurel's nose wrinkles and the corner of Lux's mouth turns up again. Not a smirk; her eyes are touched, too, the contained turned-inward radiance of a grin-that-isn't-quite. The devil cares, you know. And she pockets the bic. This is how Lux gets a lot of her lighters. Pick-things-up.
"I like trouble," she says, and it's true. "But only when I choose it." And Laurel goes to walk inside the place, Lux definitely isn't stopping her, until-
"Hey." If Laurel does stop, she says, "I know bail enforcer isn't the same thing as 'private investigator' or 'mercenary for hire,' but do you have a card? Who knows."
Something could come up that requires Laurel's skillset.
Laurel Hensley
Lux intimates that she's particularly interested in Laurel's brand of trouble, at least not tonight. Laurel can't blame her. This isn't something that anybody should want to get into. But then, Laurel can't really deny that she does enjoy it sometimes. The girl isn't a bully and she isn't suicidal, but c'mon. One would imagine that you don't get into a job like bounty hunting unless you like the thrill a little, right? In truth, Laurel's smart and she takes risks only when she has to. She doesn't put herself in harm's way blindly or with hopes of coming out of it with bloody noses and broken noses. But she does, in fact, love the adrenaline rush. Just a little.
It's not the only reason (or even the major reason) she does it. But it's a small part of the reason.
She is just turning to walk inside when Lux stops her with a word. The woman's upper body turns, pivoting at the waist so she's looking back over her shoulder at the pretty thing that stopped her. The expression on Laurel's face isn't quite the line of irritation, and it's not frustration either. It's not entirely pleased either. Impatience, perhaps. The cock of a light eyebrow and the pointed look say Yes? without saying it.
The other wants a card. Oh. Laurel turns to face the other now and nods, slipping inside her pocket and fumbling a second before coming out with such a card. She hands it over.
"Yeah sure, why not? I normally do all my work through Ray Nolan, he operates the bail bond service on 14th and Yosamite, a block south of Colfax. But if you paid out someone's bail or you've got something else you need and can pay, give me a call. I'm Laurel."
Lux
There is just one fluid motion here: she reaches out to take the card as Laurel hands it over and turns it so she can glance at the print and puts it in her pocket. It's clean, the gesture- it's a thing of economy.
With the hand holding the cigarillo, she gives a languid two-fingered salute (better than the one-fingered salute, eh?), which knocks the brim of her hat up a fraction-of-an-inch, slants it more rogueish. And this might be Lux's version of 'good luck' for tonight:
"May you avoid being puked on in there."
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