"_Someone_... is not happy."

[hazlogs]

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!'.