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aeroport_artSpent a lovely morning seeing the Orchid Show at the NY Botanical Gardens. Then, with high hopes of running errands on this Friday off from work, I instead went straight home, putzed around at my local restaurant for an hour or two, then napped until nighttime.
I lead a very exciting life, I know. It gave me time to write this chapter though :) More to come soon, I hope. The next parts should be fun. *evil cackle*
The West Coast Two-Step: Part One
MASTER POST
The West Coast Two-Step: Part Two
Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16
The Old Poodle Dog, on Bush Street and Dupont, towers at six floors and boasts the highest quality French cuisine outside of Paris. On a Saturday night, the restaurant brims with activity, families treating themselves to elegant dinners while above their heads, powerful men sit at exorbitantly-priced tables where they conduct clandestine affairs, the waiters tipped lavishly for their discretion.
Outside, and unbeknownst to the patrons dining inside, a U.S. Marshall hoists himself onto the thin, iron railing of the second floor balcony.
Feeling not unlike a tightrope walker (but with slippery shoes and no safety net to catch him if he falls), Nate steadies himself with fingertips against the cool, pressed-brick wall. He looks up, searching for—aha. The wall is punctuated with metal stars, the structural sort that keep a building upright.
He has a different idea for them.
Nate stretches an arm out, digs his fingers into the shallow edge of the closest star, and painstakingly pulls himself up. There isn’t a lot of leverage to be had with one, flimsy handhold, but it’s enough to put his feet up against the brick and kick off towards the third-story balcony above.
Nate throws an arm up, grunting from effort as he gets a hand around one of the vertical bars on the shallow side of the balcony, and from thereon it’s just a matter of securing a second grip, curling his body up from empty air—the tails of his coat fluttering in the evening breeze—and clambering over the ironwork with as little noise as possible.
Nate immediately turns around and peers over the ledge, making sure he wasn’t seen. Luckily, the streets are mostly trafficked with covered carriages, and the lone figures who amble to and fro seem more preoccupied with each other than in the shadowed walls of six-story buildings.
Satisfied, Nate dusts his hands off and lightly steps towards the French doors of the balcony, drawn to the sliver of glowing, candle-lit luminescence as if he were in a dream, no choice but to press onwards.
The glass doors are ajar, as they were on the second floor where Roth had left him. Nate eases them open and slips back inside the restaurant, albeit one floor higher and hidden from view behind heavy, brocade curtains.
He hears Roth’s voice right away, the velvety timbre close and unmistakable, and just where Nate expects him. When he’d scoped out the room earlier, only to be stopped by a polite but firm host at the top of the staircase, he’d caught a glimpse of Les at the far end of the floor, by the curtains.
He’d been alone then, but it would seem his business associate has since joined.
“…wouldn’t be appropriate, you see.” Roth clears his throat. “I’ve never paid over a hundred-forty dollars a chest in all my years of business. Now, I know the market is tightening, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to halve my profits out of fear, or paranoia that supply is suddenly going to dry up. Because it won’t.”
Nate holds his breath. He’s so close to Roth’s table, just a few feet away with scant fabric to maintain his cover. Still, he has to hear what comes next, so he inches nearer.
“One-hundred, thirty-five dollars.”
Nate frowns. One-hundred and thirty-five dollars, the man had said, his accent clear as day. Roth’s associate is Chinese.
Well, fuck. He’d been banking on Cocheta showing her face tonight, but maybe it was the power of wishful thinking that had Nate so sure he’d come away victorious. Instead, all he’s got is yet more evidence of questionable dealings, two men bartering over a barely-illegal trade. No one at the table here is guilty of mass-murder, or of funding a national network of rifle-bearing Indians determined to roam the country in dangerous, marauding bands.
No Cocheta. No reason to stay.
Nate starts to turn back around; he should really resume his station on the second floor. However, the conversation behind him suddenly raises in tenacity, piquing his interest.
“Three-hundred chests at a hundred-fifteen apiece,” Roth negotiates.
The other man sounds outraged. “You promise six hundred chests last month! One-hundred forty dollar each!”
“Mr. Liu,” Roth says testily. “The market is always in flux.“
Liu, Nate rolls around in his head. The name sounds familiar. If it’s the same Liu he’s thinking of, Nate’s squatting on a conversation between Roth and his greatest volume-driver of unrefined opium.
Now they’re getting somewhere.
“I make no money this way! You want fake seller? Fine. You buy shit product.”
“I didn’t come here for coarse language,” Roth responds, sounding angry. “If the deal is off, the deal is off. No skin off my nose.” There’s a scraping sound of wood against wood, like a chair being pushed back, followed by the delicate clinking of porcelain.
Roth adds heatedly, “You’re not the only supplier in town, you know. Without me, you’ll be packing your bags back to China by the end of the year.”
Another chair screeches backwards. “Fuck you,” Liu spits. He adds something unintelligible in Chinese. It doesn’t sound friendly.
“Again, language,” Roth seethes. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Liu, I have a friend waiting downstairs. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
Nate startles at his mention. With a backwards step, he exits the restaurant and lets the clamor of Mr. Liu’s spirited swearing blanket the sound of his footsteps.
In the open air, it’s much easier to swing himself over the balcony and drop down to the one below that it was to climb up. Nate lands on the metal grate, crouched on one knee. With swift re-entry through the French doors, he pushes through the curtains and strides down the hallway, past the closed doors of private rooms, until reaching the open dining area.
Five or six tables span the rectangular floor, nestled cozily beneath a huge, candle-lit chandelier. On the far end of the room, facing a huge portrait of a woman draped in Grecian garb, Roth is already seated.
Nate hurries over.
“Bathroom,” he explains.
Les still looks upset from his previous encounter, or maybe at Nate’s disappearance. Nonetheless, ever the gentleman, he stands up as Nate rounds the small table and takes a seat.
As he settles in, he notices something over Les’ shoulder that makes his eyes widen.
Two tables away, Ray Person has his back to Nate. He looks like he’s talking a mile a minute, gesturing with a knife in one hand and bread in the other, but across from him, Brad sits wordlessly. He notices Nate’s arrival though, lifting his gaze and tangling it with Nate's.
Slowly, like an invisible string dragging up at the corner of Brad’s mouth, he grins.
Nate averts his eyes, taking a sip of water.
He is going to kill him.
I lead a very exciting life, I know. It gave me time to write this chapter though :) More to come soon, I hope. The next parts should be fun. *evil cackle*
The West Coast Two-Step: Part One
MASTER POST
The West Coast Two-Step: Part Two
Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16
The Old Poodle Dog, on Bush Street and Dupont, towers at six floors and boasts the highest quality French cuisine outside of Paris. On a Saturday night, the restaurant brims with activity, families treating themselves to elegant dinners while above their heads, powerful men sit at exorbitantly-priced tables where they conduct clandestine affairs, the waiters tipped lavishly for their discretion.
Outside, and unbeknownst to the patrons dining inside, a U.S. Marshall hoists himself onto the thin, iron railing of the second floor balcony.
Feeling not unlike a tightrope walker (but with slippery shoes and no safety net to catch him if he falls), Nate steadies himself with fingertips against the cool, pressed-brick wall. He looks up, searching for—aha. The wall is punctuated with metal stars, the structural sort that keep a building upright.
He has a different idea for them.
Nate stretches an arm out, digs his fingers into the shallow edge of the closest star, and painstakingly pulls himself up. There isn’t a lot of leverage to be had with one, flimsy handhold, but it’s enough to put his feet up against the brick and kick off towards the third-story balcony above.
Nate throws an arm up, grunting from effort as he gets a hand around one of the vertical bars on the shallow side of the balcony, and from thereon it’s just a matter of securing a second grip, curling his body up from empty air—the tails of his coat fluttering in the evening breeze—and clambering over the ironwork with as little noise as possible.
Nate immediately turns around and peers over the ledge, making sure he wasn’t seen. Luckily, the streets are mostly trafficked with covered carriages, and the lone figures who amble to and fro seem more preoccupied with each other than in the shadowed walls of six-story buildings.
Satisfied, Nate dusts his hands off and lightly steps towards the French doors of the balcony, drawn to the sliver of glowing, candle-lit luminescence as if he were in a dream, no choice but to press onwards.
The glass doors are ajar, as they were on the second floor where Roth had left him. Nate eases them open and slips back inside the restaurant, albeit one floor higher and hidden from view behind heavy, brocade curtains.
He hears Roth’s voice right away, the velvety timbre close and unmistakable, and just where Nate expects him. When he’d scoped out the room earlier, only to be stopped by a polite but firm host at the top of the staircase, he’d caught a glimpse of Les at the far end of the floor, by the curtains.
He’d been alone then, but it would seem his business associate has since joined.
“…wouldn’t be appropriate, you see.” Roth clears his throat. “I’ve never paid over a hundred-forty dollars a chest in all my years of business. Now, I know the market is tightening, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to halve my profits out of fear, or paranoia that supply is suddenly going to dry up. Because it won’t.”
Nate holds his breath. He’s so close to Roth’s table, just a few feet away with scant fabric to maintain his cover. Still, he has to hear what comes next, so he inches nearer.
“One-hundred, thirty-five dollars.”
Nate frowns. One-hundred and thirty-five dollars, the man had said, his accent clear as day. Roth’s associate is Chinese.
Well, fuck. He’d been banking on Cocheta showing her face tonight, but maybe it was the power of wishful thinking that had Nate so sure he’d come away victorious. Instead, all he’s got is yet more evidence of questionable dealings, two men bartering over a barely-illegal trade. No one at the table here is guilty of mass-murder, or of funding a national network of rifle-bearing Indians determined to roam the country in dangerous, marauding bands.
No Cocheta. No reason to stay.
Nate starts to turn back around; he should really resume his station on the second floor. However, the conversation behind him suddenly raises in tenacity, piquing his interest.
“Three-hundred chests at a hundred-fifteen apiece,” Roth negotiates.
The other man sounds outraged. “You promise six hundred chests last month! One-hundred forty dollar each!”
“Mr. Liu,” Roth says testily. “The market is always in flux.“
Liu, Nate rolls around in his head. The name sounds familiar. If it’s the same Liu he’s thinking of, Nate’s squatting on a conversation between Roth and his greatest volume-driver of unrefined opium.
Now they’re getting somewhere.
“I make no money this way! You want fake seller? Fine. You buy shit product.”
“I didn’t come here for coarse language,” Roth responds, sounding angry. “If the deal is off, the deal is off. No skin off my nose.” There’s a scraping sound of wood against wood, like a chair being pushed back, followed by the delicate clinking of porcelain.
Roth adds heatedly, “You’re not the only supplier in town, you know. Without me, you’ll be packing your bags back to China by the end of the year.”
Another chair screeches backwards. “Fuck you,” Liu spits. He adds something unintelligible in Chinese. It doesn’t sound friendly.
“Again, language,” Roth seethes. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Liu, I have a friend waiting downstairs. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
Nate startles at his mention. With a backwards step, he exits the restaurant and lets the clamor of Mr. Liu’s spirited swearing blanket the sound of his footsteps.
In the open air, it’s much easier to swing himself over the balcony and drop down to the one below that it was to climb up. Nate lands on the metal grate, crouched on one knee. With swift re-entry through the French doors, he pushes through the curtains and strides down the hallway, past the closed doors of private rooms, until reaching the open dining area.
Five or six tables span the rectangular floor, nestled cozily beneath a huge, candle-lit chandelier. On the far end of the room, facing a huge portrait of a woman draped in Grecian garb, Roth is already seated.
Nate hurries over.
“Bathroom,” he explains.
Les still looks upset from his previous encounter, or maybe at Nate’s disappearance. Nonetheless, ever the gentleman, he stands up as Nate rounds the small table and takes a seat.
As he settles in, he notices something over Les’ shoulder that makes his eyes widen.
Two tables away, Ray Person has his back to Nate. He looks like he’s talking a mile a minute, gesturing with a knife in one hand and bread in the other, but across from him, Brad sits wordlessly. He notices Nate’s arrival though, lifting his gaze and tangling it with Nate's.
Slowly, like an invisible string dragging up at the corner of Brad’s mouth, he grins.
Nate averts his eyes, taking a sip of water.
He is going to kill him.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 06:06 am (UTC)That's what I'm talkin' about!
he gets a hand around one of the vertical bars on the shallow side of the balcony, and from thereon it’s just a matter of securing a second grip, curling his body up from empty air—the tails of his coat fluttering in the evening breeze—and clambering over the ironwork with as little noise as possible.
See? BADASS!
No Cocheta. No reason to stay.
Oh, he's so single-minded. Also, it's snap judgments like that that lead to mistakes, I'm just saying.
Out of curiosity, IS the Chinese man really unconnected to Cocheta? I found myself suspicious that he might have roundabout links to her. Purely because I am just that untrusting.
He notices Nate’s arrival though, lifting his gaze and tangling it with Nate's.
Love that description!
Brad to the rescue! YAYYYY!
no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 06:14 am (UTC)HMMMmmmm good question! I did that "subtle" thing again with the dialogue, but clearly I need to work on that ._. The Chinese dude himself is unconnected to Cocheta, but Roth is leaving hints that he's heard about or spoken with her. That's why he was fine to pay Mr. Liu a certain amount one month, but then reneges on that in this scene (because Cocheta's giving him a better price). Am I giving you too many spoilers? D: Should I be clearer in the story?
Brad to the rescue! YAYYYY!
hahahah is he??? but he's gonna throw Nate off his game!!! i'm actually writing more as we speak because the next scenes are too delicious, i kind of want to find out what happens next. (don't laugh, you know what i mean! even a writer has to plunk down and just WRITE to know what the characters are gonna do)
no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 06:25 am (UTC)That's why he was fine to pay Mr. Liu a certain amount one month, but then reneges on that in this scene (because Cocheta's giving him a better price). Am I giving you too many spoilers? D: Should I be clearer in the story?
OHHHH! Also, HA! I was kinda/sorta right! But moving beyond self-congratulation...you may need to make it a bit clearer that he and Liu are talking about the same product that Cocheta sells. That might give us enough info to make the jump. Because for all I know, Roth is some criminal dabbler who has his fingers in all SORTS of pots - diversifying, if you will. So he and Liu could be talking about anything, really, unless we know (or Nate knows) they're talking about Cocheta's market.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 06:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 03:39 pm (UTC)oooh, that's such an interesting point. I didn't even mean for it to be that way, I think just as the story goes along I'm feeling Nate's frustrations as well. so really, it's probably just me getting sloppy, impatient, and in a hurry to wrap this up DDD:
UST levels will skyrocket!
Yes, ma'am!
no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 09:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 03:40 pm (UTC)yay for badass Nate!
not unconstructive at all! i wasn't sure if i was going a little too like, Mission Impossible with nate scaling walls like a spider, so it's good to know you guys found it believably badass and not just like, ridiculous.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 04:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 11:13 am (UTC)Slowly, like an invisible string dragging up at the corner of Brad’s mouth, he grins.
<333
no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 03:42 pm (UTC)Oh good, wasn't sure if i was taking the badassery a little too far and making Nate sound like something out of Mission Impossible. Good to know y'all believe in his awesome abilities ;)
no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 05:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-24 03:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-24 02:01 pm (UTC)Also, Brad, stop cock-blocking, Jesus Christ, it's not like Nate is wearing your letterman jacket or anything. ;P
no subject
Date: 2011-04-24 03:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-24 04:08 pm (UTC)nate is his head chearleader ASB president girlfriend!!!
Well duh.