3/6/04
Harbor Park -- The Meadow
One of the last bastions of green left in the city, mottled and withered grass
and weeds covers the earth like a badly stained carpet, with the
construction work turning what is left into just bare dirt. The
vegetation seems marginally healthier the further it is from the river
and much healthier towards the central area of the park around the
fountain. Construction work is ongoing here: a raised earthen berm about
five feet tall is being built all around the park perimeter, with two
breaks each at the Bridge Street entrance and the First Street end.
Wooden posts are being erected at regular intervals all along the earthen
wall, while tasteful iron gates and fences are being added at the
entrances. Overpowering the scent of living vegetation are the exhaust
fumes from a busy street to the west and an unpleasant stench from the
Columbia River to the east. From the street view or river view, the park
is now isolated, as if it existed apart from the city. People in tall
buildings have an excellent view of any goings-ons for now, though. In
the center of the park, a small glade of six tall trees and a flower bed
surrounds the fountain.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the
park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St.
Claire.
About the only thing keeping Josh from lashing about and frothing at the mouth
was his coffee. Good old fashion Irish Coffee. The park was gradually
emptying as the night progressed, people leaving as the light began to
fade out for the day. About the only people who stuck around where the
few suicidal folks who would brave the park after hours, and people like
Joshua, who gave the park the reputation it has. The Ahroun sat on the
berm wall, staring out over the river much like he did from the nights
before. The coffee he sips at to help the mood is clearly not just
coffee; anyone with a good nose could probably smell the whisky mixed in
there. But even this element wasn't enough to cause people to come within
spitting distance of the Cliath. The moon was full. Very full.
A female voice comes drifting over the park, singing off-key and not quietly.
"Last ni' I tooka walk inna dark... to'a place called Pally-seds Park...
ta have some fun an' see'wha I could see-eee... S'where the girls are!"
It's coming from a short, skinny bald figure in a too-big black
trenchcoat. Her narrow face is turned upwards slightly, and every so
often she gives a little shuffling skip, as if she's dancing as much as
walking. But there's nothing jolly or even really very 'cute' about it;
she just seems lost in her own world.
Joshua's reverie is broken by the scrawny bald girl, and not even the drink is
enough to hold back the irritation that comes from being dislodged from
thought. Josh turns his head slightly, eyeing the skipping girl before
wrinkling his nose in supreme distaste.
Either she hasn't noticed Joshua or simply doesn't care, but it's probably the
former since even though her vague, disjointed path (no rhythm to the
steps, like a Fremen trying not to attract a sandworm) takes her closer
to the irritable Ahroun.
"Took'a ride onna shoop-dee-shoop... th' girl I sat wit' almos', almos'
puked... an' when it stopped, she was holdin' hands wit' me-ee..." As
J.C. gets closer, Joshua can see that she's smiling, grinning even,
showing off crooked teeth. "My heart was flyin' UP!" She stops short,
flinging her arms up. "Like a rocket ship! DOWN!" She flops her arms down
on the word, sagging slightly. "Like'a roll-er-coast-er..."
She could be one of the world's smallest skinheads, a skinny bald chick barely
over five feet tall. A faded skull-and-crossbones adorns the front of her
black t-shirt, and a massive rip in the left knee of her baggy jeans
shows the thermal longjohns worn underneath. Her sneakers are held
together with duct tape and prayer, and the old black trenchcoat is far
too big for her; it comes down almost to her ankles. There's a spiked dog
collar around her neck and spiked cuffs around her wrists.
Her age is difficult to determine precisely; she looks anywhere between her
mid-teens and her very early twenties. She also appears to be suffering
from a low-grade cold. Her brown eyes are puffy and bloodshot, and her
prominent, bony nose is red and sniffly. Her skin's pale, her brown
eyebrows almost nonexistent. Even cleaned up, she wouldn't be a beauty.
"There's something to be said for silence." Joshua is unmistakably talking to,
or more precisely, growling at, the scrawny Girl in the trench coat. His
nose wrinkles again and he turns back to face the river, sipping at his
coffee again.
J.C.'s singing cuts off right before she can get to the next line and she jerks
back, brown eyes snapping over to Joshua in complete startlement, the
expression so exaggerated that it almost seems mocking or comical...
except that now that she's standing still, it's clear she doesn't seem
entirely steady on her feet, and there's a vagueness in her eyes that
suggests that she's not all there right now. She doesn't say anything,
just stares at him slackjawed.
While the Ahroun is aware that J.C. is looking at him, he doesn't seem to be
willing to even acknowledge this fact. He instead keeps at his spiked
coffee, alternating sips with gulps in the most visible sign of his
frustration. His face sets down into a unamused, neutral mask.
J.C.'s face slowly transforms into a slow grin as she moves a few more steps
back. "_Someone_... is not happy."
Joshua looks like someone who just got out of some sort of boot camp, despite
his mid-late teens age. He stands about 5' 8", his frame covered by a
layer of muscle visible under his skin from obsessive training. He lacks
almost any fat, lean from months of slim eating. His skin seems stretched
over his frame, pale and of clear northern European descent. His face is
cold and lined, no real defining features present: dull brown eyes, thin
lips, a smaller nose. His head is covered in short red stubble, near crew
cut lending to the "In the Army now" look. The Ahroun has a near constant
disheveled, almost feral quality about him in spite of how clean he keeps
himself.
Bruises and cuts are scattered across his frame; one could deduce that he gets
in more than his fair share of scrapes. Currently, Joshua is wearing a
black t-shirt tucked into a clean pair of blue jeans. Looped through the
jeans is a simple brown belt, off of which hangs currently nothing. His
feet are clad in a pair of shin high muddy hiking boots, the pair broken
in from overuse. Not particularly attractive, he stands out only in the
blandest sort of way.
"Damn strait, whelp. Now go fuck off." He cuts back, taking another gulp at the
brew. There's a clear, unhappy and quite irritated cynical tone to his
voice."You can wander on back to what ever trash heap you crawled out of
now, yeah? Or maybe go blow some brain cells at one of yer fucked up
raves, or shit like that."
J.C. sniffs wetly and wipes her nose on the back of her hand. The sleeves of
her coat are rolled up; otherwise, her hands would be completely hidden.
"Guess y'don' wanna talk about it, then." Her grin's faded, and she's got
that vaguely nervous 'look, a psycho' expression that Joshua's seen from
a lot of people outside of his Happy Garou Family (tm).
Joshua's paper coffee cup is now emptied, the Cliath holding it casually in one
hand and squeezing it down into ball. With a easy toss, the crushed cup
'tunk's into a trash can. "What would be your first indication? Me
telling you to shut your noise hole, or me telling you to stick your head
up some tail-pipe and inhale deeply?"
J.C. sniffs again, her brown eyes blinking. She's out of striking distance by
now and watching Joshua the way someone might eyeball a froth-jawed
junkyard dog. "Well, then... no wonda' y'got no friends. Sittin' here all
'lone chewin' y'face..."
Joshua hops off the burn, ramming his hands into his pockets as he strides away
from the sniffing girl. His jaw sets, and as he near-stomps off he takes
the time to glare at everything that is currently offending him. Which is
more or less anything moving, and some things that aren't.
J.C. steps back again as Joshua jumps down and then stands to watch him move
off. With his back to her, he doesn't see the sudden cold, calculating
look that enters her face, or the way her eyes glitter in the darkness. A
moment later, she grins again and clambers up onto the wall where Josh
was just sitting and sits down, her legs dangling.
Joshua doesn't look back at her, instead continuing on. His path takes him for
the bridge, eventually headed to the Caern.
Just before he's gone completely, her voice reaches him distantly, singing
"Palisades Park" again.
[...]
J.C. sits on the wall that stands between the city park and the smelly Columbia
River, her feet dangling well-clear of the ground. Face turned upward to
the moon, eyes closed, she sings to herself in an off-key kind of way.
"Cottleston, cottleston, cottleston pie. A fly can' bird but'a bir-rd can
fly. Ask me a riddle an' I reply, 'Cottleston, cottleston, cottleston
pie.'"
Nicodemus strolls along the sidewalk near the street, then pauses hesitantly at
the entrance to the park itself--seeing as it's not *quite* dark yet.
Dusky. And, as usual, largely unoccupied. His gaze sweeps over the few
lost souls still in sight, then he tempts fate and heads on in, possibly
headed towards the fountain or maybe the river's edge.
J.C. swings her legs like a child, her sneakered heels thumping against the low
wall. Her not-particularly-lovely voice travells across the grass.
"Cottleston, cottleston, cottleston pie. Why does a chicken? I don' know
why. Ask me a riddle an' I reply, 'Cottleston, cottleston, cottleston
pie.'" The tune, what can be gleaned of it, is simple -- suitable for
singing by a Pooh Bear, for example.
Nicodemus, in contrast to others out tonight, is silent in his little jaunt out
into the not-too-reputable park. He does indeed head over to the
fountain, looks at it for a few minutes, dips his hand into the water,
then flicks the drops that adhered to his hand in a fashion reminiscent
of some Catholic priest-type ritual. He turns and heads back the way he
came in.
Nicodemus is a thin and wiry young man in his early twenties--and a bit on the
short side at about 5'4"ish in height. His black hair is cropped short in
a sort of Chinese-like crewcut hairstyle, despite his not being Chinese
in the least. He looks pretty much like your average American
mongrel-type heritage. His normally pale skin is mildly sunburned despite
the winter season.
Nicodemus' attire indicates he's the type of person that takes the time
required to dressed well--if a bit peculiarly. He's currently wearing a
stark black greatcoat reminiscent of the English Victorian era. Beneath
it lies a royal purple vest with silver vertical pinstriping over a
contrasting white silk shirt. His pants are well-fitted stark black and
perfectly match the coat. On his feet are simple and unadorned black
leather loafers. Wire-rimmed glasses are perched upon the bridge of his
nose. His appearance seems to say "well-to-do, refined, educated, and
goth-influenced."
His accessories are few. Each cuff on his coat sports a tasteful silver silver
cufflink with a small ebony stone in the center. Around his neck are two
separate necklaces on ultra-thin silver chains. One ornament is a
sterling silver skull with a blood-red transluscent stone inside. The
second is a simple and unadorned silver cross. A faint scent of fine
incense lingers about him, almost like a properly applied and distinctive
cologne.
"Cottleston, cottleston, cottleston pie. A fish can't whistle, and neither
can--" J.C. stops singing abruptly and opens her eyes as though startled.
Brown eyes skim the park and fix on the figure moving away from the
fountain, and despite the distance and deepening shadows, she cries out,
"NICKY!" with a delighted squeal, and off she jumps from the wall and off
she races toward the well-dressed goth.
Nicodemus' posture shifts immediately to a tense fight-or-flight stance as he
looks towards the source of the yell. Incoming pyscho homeless baglady at
11 o'clock! He takes a couple steps back, then stops with a hesitant body
language. "Uh, hello?"
J.C. looks more like a minuature skinhead punk than the normal kind of baglady
-- the spiked dog collar is a definite new addition -- and fortunately
she pulls up short (rather than tackle him bodily as, apparantly, was her
original intention). "Nicky! Don'cha 'member me? J.C.?" She grins up at
him with big crooked teeth under a prominant, red-sniffly nose, one of
the few people in town who actually _does_ have to look _up_ to the short
gothic. "We talked 'bout entropy an' trains, 'member?" She sniffs wetly.
Nicodemus relaxes somewhat as he doesn't get tackled, like he thought he might.
"I, uh," he stalls as he tries to place the name and voice and face to
some past event. And fails. "Doesn't ring a bell, but you look kind of
familiar." He offers apologetically, "Sorry?" Both hands go into their
respective coat pockets, probably for warmth or maybe just so he has
something to do with them.
J.C.'s face falls with disappointment. "...Oh..." She sniffs again and wipes
her nose on the back of her hand. "It's a'righ'," she says with a shrug.
"Was a long time ago anyway." The cheery smile returns a bit as she looks
him up and down. "Y'still dress real nice, Nicky."
Nicodemus makes a faint grimace, then shrugs it off. "Sorry. Nothing personal,
it's just that I might run in to and talk with about forty or sixty-eight
different people every day at work. It's impossible to keep up with
everyone's names and faces." He then adds with the faintest hint of a
smile and a raised left eyebrow, "I didn't have to arrest you, did I?"
That ought to be a good compliment to a skinhead.
J.C. makes a dismissive 'pfft' noise. "I like ya, Nicky, but no 'fense,
y'couldn' catch _me_ if y'tried." She smirks, though her eyes are solemn
as she studies his face. "Y'still a cop, then?"
"Yeah, I probably couldn't even catch a cold," Nicodemus obliges, then lifts
his shoulders in a mute shrug. "Barely. Down to one or sometimes two days
a week if they're really short-handed. And," his hands come out of his
pockets to gesture at his current attire, "I'm not on duty tonight unless
someone mistakenly promoted me to undercover work and then forgot to tell
me." His hands go back into his pockets. "So. What're you up to these
days? It's obviously been a while."
Konstantin meanders down the river walk, hanging up his cell phone which is
slipped back into the teen's pocket.
J.C. turns her head aside to cough into her cupped hands. _She_ sure can catch
a cold... or whatever it is that's ailing her. "Ah, jus' bummin' around,"
she says, snuffling, as she turns back. "Lookin' for, uh... this'n that.
Keepin' an ear out an' watchin' the way shit floats, y'know?" She grins
again, showing off that open, friendly, crook-toothed grin.
Nicodemus pulls his right hand out from its coat pocket and, without looking
where he's pointing, gestures back towards the river--coincidentally in
Konstantin's direction. "Shit usually follows the course of the river."
/This/ shit is currently struggling against the river. He's headed along a path
across the meadow, veering away from the Columbia altogether. Konstantin
pulls his coat around himself a bit closer as he turns toward the city.
J.C. lets out a loud, donkey-bray laugh, and then abruptly flings herself at
Nicodemus to give him that violently-enthusiastic hug that he feared
earlier.
One hand in a pocket, the other at an odd angle, and not expecting the sudden
attack-hug, Nicodemus falls victim to the short skinhead's assault, but
braves it at stoicly as a well-mannered goth-type can manage. Just lean
back a little away from the huggy-type person, don't return the hug, and,
in this instance, try not to get too much nose juice on your attire. Ew.
Konstantin pauses on his journey, watching this random bit of street theater.
Hands in his coat, he studies the short, bald woman especially carefully.
J.C. hugs Nicodemus very tight and, alas, presses her face -- snotty nose and
all -- against his nice clean shirt. After a moment she releases him and
pulls back, smiling up at him, her small hands (hidden by the too-long
trenchcoat sleeves) vanishing into her coat pockets. "Sorry 'bout that.
S'just... after that snarly fucker that was hangin' out here earlier,
y'like a bowl of Sugar Smacks, y'know? An' y'made me laugh, so I couldn't
help it."
Nicodemus makes a valiant effort to maintain his tact and poise, and mostly
succeeds because he doesn't look down to inspect his clothes and is now,
post-release, no longer holding his breath (or nose). "This park is,
unfortunately, a giant magnet for dickheads and assholes. Years and years
ago, I got the shit kicked out of me here in broad daylight. You be
careful if you come here--particularly after dark."
Konstantin's eyes bald bignose for a few moments, his eyes narrowed as
Nicodemus explains the dangers of the park. He clears his throat, then
resumes course toward the street, taking a few steps.
J.C. sniffs. "Yeah, yeah, I know, but the vibe is good, an' if y'can avoid the
assholes, it's pretty sweet." She doesn't notice Konstantin at first, but
when she does, her attention diverts visibly to fix on him.
Nicodemus turns his head and follows J.C.'s gaze, checking to see what drew her
attention.
Konstantin is a young man in his late teens with a lean, wiry build. He has a
generally unruly collection of close cropped sandy brown hair, long,
almost delicate fingers and a definite, although not unattractive Slavic
look about his facial features. He's dressed like a typical preppy
teenager, wearing a pair of freshly polished and stylish leather loafers,
a pair of snazzy looking and freshly pressed khaki colored dress slacks
with a button up cotton knit short sleeve shirt. The shirt is covered in
a vaguely tropical motif. Around his neck is a simple woven leather rope
with what seems to be a raven charm.
The teen's phone rings, and he answers it before the first ring -- one of those
really bad stock polyphonic ring tones -- can come its first little
reprise. "Konstantin," he says into it, pronouncing it with the emphasis
on the second syllable.
J.C. watches Konstantin with interest for a while, then tilts her head to look
sidelong at Nicodemus. "We gotta get t'gether again sometime, Nicky. Talk
philosophy an' stuff like b'fore. Y'still workin' that shop, right?"
Nicodemus hesitates a fraction of a second before answering. "Not really
anymore. But I do hang out near the fountain up there a lot. Probably
moreso now that it's getting warmer--in a very relative sense of the
word."
Konstantin breaks into a peal of Russian delivered quickly and quietly into the
phone. He doesn't offer any pleasantly to end the call, he simply hangs
up. The phone rings again after that, but the young man silences it and
replaces the phone in his pocket.
J.C. avoids looking at Konstantin now. "I'll come see ya an' we'll talk," she
tells Nicodemus cheerfully. Is that a promise or a threat?
Nicodemus nods vaguely back at J.C. "Sure thing. And if it's not been a year or
two, I'll probably even remember your name this time, eh?" He offers a
very faint smile as punctuation to his comment.
Konstantin with a faint smirk, the ragabash pulls a smoke from a package of
cigarettes he produces from an inside pocket of his coat. "Sorry to
bother you," he says in unaccented English. "Could I get a light? I can't
seem to flick my Bic just now." He holds up his smoke as if he were
toasting the odd pair.
J.C.'s attention turns back to Konstantin, her face tipped upward to study him,
hands in pockets. Her red-rimmed brown eyes are bright and alert.
"Sorry," she says, sniffling and sounding apologetic. "I don' smoke."
Nicodemus removes his left hand from the left pocket of his coat and, with a
practiced flick of the wrist that only past and previous smokers (and
maybe pyromaniacs) develop, produces a custom-type greenish flame from a
gold-plated zippo-type lighter. Engraved in all caps on the lighter are
three words: TRUST NO ONE.
Konstantin looks surprised at the cast of the flame from the lighter and smirks
at the message engraved on it. His eyes slant toward J.C. as he lights
up, exhaling a cloud of smoke away from the two of them. "Thanks,
appreciate that," he murmurs, lifting his chin toward Nicodemus. "Sorry
to bother you."
J.C. murmurs, "Pretty..." at Nico's lighter and its oddly-colored flame.
*click* The flame goes out and the lighter disappears back where it came from.
"My pleasure."
From afar, to the room, Nicodemus ers. That unattributed @emit was mine. Sorry.
"Have a good evening," Konstantin says, wandering away from the others, taking
care to exhale smoke away from the two conversants. He appears headed
toward the street once more.
Nicodemus glances downwards, then up. "I've got a date to pick up. See you
around, J.C."
J.C. waves goodbye to the departing teenager, then turns back to Nicodemus and
nods, still smiling in a cheerful way that's most un-skinhead-like. "See
ya, Nicky. Be good, 'kay?"
Nicodemus nods as he heads out.
Konstantin watches Nicodemus leave, then circles back toward the girl, having
never quite made it past the edge of the park.
J.C. sniffs wetly again and wipes her nose on her sleeve. With Nicodemus gone,
she takes out the black business cards she lifted from him and studies
the lettering with glow-in-the-dark ink with great interest.
Konstantin approaches J.C. with an appreciative grin. "Here," he says, holding
out his hand. "Let's just get this out of the way," he says. He flips his
hand over quickly, where a wad of neatly folded cash is carefully
concealed there. "Shake?"
J.C. looks up blinking and rather startled, but slow-witted she's not. A faint
grin shows off some of those crooked teeth again as she clasps hands with
Kostya, adroitly palming the cash. "Sure."
"Get anything else good off him?" He glances over his shoulder, just to make
sure the well dressed dandy is really gone.
J.C. tips her head to one side, looking up at the Slavic boy, then smirks and
produces a rather nice-looking switchblade. Nothing special, but
above-average quality. She >snickts< the blade out, holding it between
them in a way that's not _quite_ threatening -- her grin's still quite
sunny and without malice. The cash has, of course, long since disappeared.
Konstantin looks impressed. "Very nice," he muses. "You don't hang out here
much," he comments drolly. "Or I would've seen you before, I'm pretty
sure."
J.C. pushes the slim blade back in and stuffs the sleek little weapon into her
jeans pocket. "I kinda keep a low profile." Her grin widens, lighting her
eyes. "I've seen _you_ aroun', though. Playa', ain'cha? In wit' th' big
boys." Her tone's admiring, even flattering. Her weight shifts to one
leg, hip tilted in a way that would be rather fetching on a more
attractive girl. Thin arms fold themselves across her flat chest.
Konstantin clears his throat. "I get around," he admits, trying to sound
modest. "Here, I want to give you something," the Shadow Lord continues.
He pulls out a receipt and a pen and writes down a phone number. "If you
ever need anything, call me -- I'm willing to pay well for information."
J.C. rises briefly onto her toes as he writes, then drops back down to her
heels. She accepts the paper when offered, squinting at the number on it
before stuffing it into her pocket. "Any particular kind ya lookin' for?"
Konstantin shakes his head. "Actually, no. You see anything interesting and
want a little extra cash -- or maybe a favor or two exchanged -- drop a
dime."
"Sure thing," says the mini-skinhead readily. "Y'got somethin' ya wanna be
called by?"
"Yeah, call me Kostya," he says, casually. "That's what my friends call me.
Pretty small group of people. What about you? You got a name?"
"It's Jenny," she replies with a broad grin. "But my friends call me J.C."
"Yeah?" The Shadow Lord lifts a brow oddly. "Well, maybe you'll prove to be my
savior sometime..."
It takes her a moment to get the joke, and then she utters a snorty guffaw, the
laugh devolving into a spasm of wet, racking coughs. She bends over
slightly, hands covering her mouth as she hacks away.
Konstantin takes a drag off his cigarette. "Not a good joke," he says. "But
thanks for laughing... er wheezing at it." He pauses as his phone rings.
He pulls the noisemaker out of his pocket and looks at the incoming
number. "Gotta take this," he says with a shrug. "Privet?" he answers.
"Nyet, nyet," he responds quickly. He breaks into Russian again, shaking
his head as he hangs up. "Sorry..."
J.C. has recovered by the time he finishes the call, though the fit was violent
enough to leave her a bit breathless. She waves off his apology.
"S'okay... s'just... spring comin'... fuckin' allergies..." She coughs
again, once, and takes a deep breath, getting in air.
Konstantin glances past the short -- and let's be honest -- ugly girl toward
the park's borders. "No reason to stand here in this field," he says.
"You want to get some donuts?" he asks. "Probably way less unpleasant
crap to plug up your nose there."
J.C. sniffles. "Yeah, sure." She conjures up a ghost of that sunny smile.
"Sounds spiff."
Konstantin heads toward the exit onto Regan Street. "So where do you normally
hang out, anyway?"
J.C. trots along after him, hands in pockets. She shrugs at the question.
"Around. Sometimes 'round Charlie's. Got some new threads recently,
y'see?" She tugs at her pirate-y t-shirt and then pushes up a coat-sleeve
to reveal one of the spiked cuffs around one stick-thin little wrist. "So
I go over ta th' Temple an' hang out in th' parkin' lot. Watch th'
vampire-wannabees." She snickers.
Konstantin laughs too. "Some of those wannabes are dedicated customers," he
says. "So I have to temper my contempt with a healthy respect for their
money. They might be a bunch of stupid poseurs, but their money is as
green as the next guy's."
J.C. grins toothily. "Hey, I hear _that_. 'Sides, they come out drunk or wasted
an' _completely_ blind."
Konstantin tilts his head and nods. "So they remain good customers for you, as
well. Good for you," he says.
"Yep." She does a little skip-hop and falls into perfect step with her brand
new friend. "Nicky's the best of 'em, but he ain't really one'a them
anymore. Him bein' a cop part-time an' all." She sighs a bit as if
disappointed and shakes her head. "It ain't right for him."
"That guy's a cop?" The tone says disbelief, but the ragabash's wearing a
smirky grin. "He dress like that on the Job?"
J.C. sniffles back some snot. "Nah. He wears a uniform. But he's a cop, no
joke." She shrugs. "Go figger, huh?"
"Good to know," Konstantin replies. "Good to know now, especially. Maybe he'd
be open to the some kind of arrangement too. Any ideas how he'd react to
that kind of proposal?"
"Nicky?" She purses her lips, frowning for a moment. "I dunno. Nicky's funny.
He ain't, like, _innocent_ 'r nothin'. He looks it, yeah, but there's
somethin' there that, I dunno." She shrugs. "I kinda get th' feelin' that
he's a lil' straight-n-narrow."
Konstantin seems vaguely surprised by that, but shrugs. "Huh. He doesn't seem
the type to be full of traditional moral virtues." He glances at J.C.,
still continuing down the street to the donut shop.
J.C. sniffs. "I din' say _that_, exactly. S'just..." She frowns, then shrugs
again. "Like I said, Nicky's funny. Mebbe he'll go fer it. Mebbe not."
From afar, Konstantin will buy donuts and make small talk, etc.
You paged Konstantin with 'By the way, how much cash did he slip her earlier?'.
Konstantin pages: About $100.
You paged Konstantin with 'SCORE!'.
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