Keeping Busy

[hazlogs]

Date: Dec 6 2001

Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (93% full).

Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining. The temperature is 45 degrees
Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
south at 23 mph, with gusts up to 30 mph. The barometric pressure reading
is 29.14 and rising, and the relative humidity is 89 percent. The dewpoint
is 42 degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius.)

Harbor Park -- Fountain

Situated in the center of a large, open meadow is a clustering of six
trees, a flower bed, a few steel-and-wood benches set firmly into
concrete, and a flagstone courtyard that is dominated by a large fountain.

The fountain is a wide circular pool of water some fifty feet across and
about five feet deep in most places. The sculpture in the center is a mix
of old and new, traditional and modern: eight concrete-and-stainless-steel
slabs about six feet high are set in a rough Stonehenge-like circle around
the center of the fountain. Water flows from their tops, cascading in
bright mesmerizing sheets to the pool below. Rising above the steel circle
is a large marble statue of the Water Bearer, an androgynous figure draped
in robes of flowing water. It bears a large jug carved with various Greek
symbols, from which pours a seething torrent of water into the pool at its
feet.

Cars on the nearby street have an excellent view of the park as do any
residents of the tall buildings which line the waterfront.

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. Recent construction work is creating an earthen berm several
feet high all along the borders of the park in all directions.

Drew enters the glade in the middle of the open meadow.

        There's something about her--it's hard to describe, but it
surfaces in the odd gesture, the flash of her eyes. The woman's former
girlishness has mellowed, and her age now settles gracefully somewhere
around 30. She stands at an unimpressive 5-foot-4, but her raw physicality
makes up for what she lacks in height: her figure, while still gentled by
curves, is lean with the sinew of an athlete or dancer.

        Tousled, soft-black hair has been cropped haphazardly close to the
scalp: it stands out in an array of ragged tufts and wisps that can't be
tamed, displaying the pale curve of her throat and the determined line of
her jaw. She's got a sweet face, easy as tea leaves to read--a bow of a
mouth, gray-green eyes, pointed chin, fair complexion with a faint
spattering of freckles across the nose. Delicate lines have begun to show
around her eyes, bearing testament to a pastfull of smiles as well as
challenges.

        She's dressed to fend off the cold, wet weather: a vintage black
motorcycle jacket fits her snugly, pulled overtop a thick grey turtleneck
sweater. A brown felt fedora perches at a jaunty angle on her head,
sporting what looks like a bluejay feather. Stompy black boots add a few
inches to her unimpressive height, and her hands are warmed by fingerless
black gloves. Her ripped jeans are just tight enough to be interesting.

Salem moves through the park at a restless prowl, currently circling near
the fountain. His hands are buried deep into his coat pockets; the leather
garment is buttoned up against the cold, the collar turned up.

Someone else is apparently prowling the park, despite the forbidding night
and the light rain. Mud puddles squish and splash audibly as a diminutive
figure approaches the fountain, a bulging garbage bag slung over her
shoulder. She's whistling cheerfully as she goes out of her way to hit
every puddle.

Salem, when he catches sight of the feminine figure, slows his pacing, and
then stops. Careless, even contemptuous, of the rain, he watches her, a
mild frown touching an otherwise deadpan expression.

Absorbed in her muddy version of hop-scotch, the woman doesn't notice she
has company until she nearly reaches the fountain. She blinks, but quickly
covers her surprise with a rakish grin and a tip of her hat. "Nice night
for a walk," she notes dryly, taking in the man's scars and lack of
umbrella with a quick glance--assessing, measuring him up.

"Yes, it is," Salem replies, without the slightest hint of irony. His
return gaze is just as critical, just as measuring. If not moreso. "Have
we met?"

She tilts her head to one side, considering as she narrows her eyes.
"Doubt it," she rasps musingly. "I'd remember, if we had." The small woman
shrugs her burden from her shoulder, dropping the plastic bag to the
concrete and crouching to rummage through its contents. "You hungry?"

Salem's posture stiffens subtly, but otherwise, his expression doesn't
change, and his tone of voice remains calm, even pleasant. "I've had
dinner, thank you." A gloved hand emerges from his coat to tuck back a
stray lock of wet hair. "Jack Salem," he offers, by way of introduction.

At his last words, the woman pauses noticably. Again, a smooth cover: she
make a thoughtful, mild noise in the back of her throat and pulls two or
three plastic-wrapped bundles from the bag. "Name sounds familiar," she
answers lowly.

"Does it?" There's a deceptive lightness in his voice now; the brow over
his good eye arches. "From where?"

She half-grins, humming a few bars from 'I Heard it Through the Grapevine'
as she moves to place a bundle beneath each of the nearest benches.
"Friends," she answers, just as lightly. "Maybe family."

Salem's gaze follows her. A flicker of curiosity is submerged under a
tremor of impatience, quickly suppressed. "Mm. And _your_ name is...?"

The small woman sighs, as though she's sad to bring a game to an end.
"Drew Miller," she rasps, continuing with her task--tucking the bundles in
various half-sheltered places around the fountain.

"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Miller," Salem replies, with automatic
courtesy. Then recognition dawns. "Ah." He takes a few steps toward her.
"Do you know a woman named Kaz?"

One side of Salem's mouth quirks upward in a sardonic kind of way. "And
family. If rather... _distant_ family, in my case." He considers the woman
thoughtfully. "She gave me your name, and I'd been meaning to contact you.
I gather that you're involved in a number of, ah, social and charitable
activities here in town."

"Or as my critics like to put it, I 'grub around with bums'," the woman
adds lowly, wrinkling her nose. Blinking, she turns to appraise him anew,
one hand resting on a hip. "So Kazzy-cakes handed out my name, eh? Didn't
think she'd actually do it. Whatcha need from me?"

Salem's right eyebrow arches slightly at the nickname, but he doesn't
comment on it. "I have a great deal of idle time on my hands at the
moment, and I, mmn, need something constructive to do with it." His pauses
a beat, then adds, "I was hoping you'd have need of another volunteer."

Drew blinks again, plopping herself down on the nearest bench and peering
closely at the taller man. She pulls off her hat to scratch at blue-black
spikes of hair in a pensive gesture. "Been a while since anyone's offered
to help out," she admits in a mutter. "But first things first, honey.
Tribe, rank, and auspice?" The kinswoman grins, completely at odds with
her military-style demand.

Salem, out of habit perhaps, gives the area a glance-over, but the good
thing about a cold, wet, rainy night in December is that it keeps the park
_empty_. Shifting his attention back to Drew, Salem returns the grin with
a thin little smile of his own and replies, smoothly, "Walkers, Cliath,
and Half."

The kinswoman makes a neutral sound in the back of her throat, propping a
hand beneath her chin to regard him closely for a quiet moment. "Never
seen a half-moon so roughed up," she notes lowly. Not unkind--simply
observant. But she changes the subject smoothly: "So, Mister Jack Salem
the Walker. What can you do for me, other than offer me some free time and
good intentions?"

The Glass Walker returns her question with one of his own. "What do you
need?" He shifts his weight slightly; a subtle lunar-enduced restlessness
that's otherwise kept well under control. "Unfortunately, I can offer
little more than my self and my time." There's nothing self-deprecating
about his tone.

Drew shifts her chin from one hand to the other, curiosity plain in her
eyes. "Aright," she finally rasps. "First assignment is to come have
coffee with me. Think y'can handle that?"

"I believe I can manage that, yes," Salem replies, dryly.

Flashing a grin, the kinswoman hops up from her bench to sling the plastic
bag over a shoulder. "Good to hear, soldier," she nods, throwing up a
mock-salute and turning to trudge southwards. "Follow me."

Salem lets the corner of his mouth quirk upwards again, then falls into
step with Drew.

Medina Coffees

Since falling under new management in the past year, this place has
somewhat fallen into disrepair. The walls are stained, greasy. The front
window has not been washed in at least three months, obscuring any view of
the outdoors. There are more tables now, though few are new or in good
repair. The scent of cigarette smoke hangs in the air, competing with the
rich smell of various coffees.

The way to the street is on the western side of the shop. Items here may
be seen by +view.

There is a good deal of graffiti on the wooden tables.

Most of the tables are square, well-beaten wooden tables, oil, smoke and
coffee-stained and pockmarked with cigarette burns and graffiti. One round
table stands near the front; one of the square tables is uneven and
wobbly, and Hamed will do nothing to fix it. There is one small table
about midway back, near the wall opposite the counter, with only two
chairs and a heavy wooden chessboard upon it, and there is one larger,
round table near that chessboard table.

Drew pushes into the tiny coffee shop with a sigh of relief--it my be
filthy, but it's warm and dry. The place is empty except for a weasel-thin
girl with pink-dyed hair, who looks up from her newspaper and grins as
Drew enters. "Evening, Mizz Miller," the girl calls. "Gotcherself a new
boy toy, I see!"

The kinswoman snorts in reply, pulling a bundle from her sack and chucking
it at the girl. "Stick a sandwich in it, Nita," she mutters. Nita just
chuckles from behind the counter.

Salem pulls off his gloves as he follows the kinswoman inside, slipping
them into a coat pocket. He gives the pink-haired girl a bit of a look --
not completely unkind, but with a bit of a sharp edge to it -- then utters
a short chuckle.

"..Nita thinks she can mess with me 'cause I got her this job," the
kinswoman explains with amusement, making her way to a table near the
front window. "*I* think she'd better watch her back." She says all this
loud enough to be audible, and Nita just crows with laughter as she brings
a mug of black coffee and sets it in front of Drew. "Another regular
house, or does the boyfriend drink something fancy?" Nita tugs on one of
her candy-colored pigtails and gives Salem a sly look.

"The 'boyfriend'," replies Salem coolly, "drinks his coffee black, and
quite plain." He meets Nita's gaze with a thin, polite smile. There's a
hint of amusement there, but it's buried.

Drew laughs quietly as Nita bustles off to fill the request. "Looks like
you've got an admirer," she notes dryly, settling back in her rickety
chair and setting her hat on the tabletop.

Salem takes a seat opposite, shrugging out of his coat and letting it
drape along the back of his chair. "Hmn. I could make a remark about her
taste in men, but I won't." He tucks a stray bit of wet hair behind one
ear and rests his forearms on the table, fingers laced together.

Drew snorts, casting a glance across the room to where Nita is pouring a
second mug of coffee. "You're no pot-bellied alcoholic wife-beater, I'd
guess. It's a step up."

"Hmn," says Salem. "That's not saying much." There's that dry, sardonic
tone again.

Oblivious to the conversation, Nita returns with a second mug and a smile
for the Walker. Drew waits until she's gone before answering, "You've
gotta start somewhere, right?" She shrugs with a wry grin, testing her
coffee before taking a sip. "So. What were you up to by the fountain? Just
patrol?"

Salem folds his hands around the coffee mug, for the moment simply taking
in its warmth. "Partially. I often go there to think."

Drew blinks dubiously. "In this weather?" She opens her mouth, then shuts
it. "But who'm I to question werewolf taste in ambience? Nevermind." The
kinswoman grins, almost to herself, as she watches him across the table.

Salem frowns slightly at Drew's use of the w-word and gives a quick glance
toward Nita as well as a sweep around the rest of the coffee shop. Touch
of paranoia, perhaps? "Nothing wrong with a little rain," he says, once
his attention's shifted back to Drew. He lifts his mug and sips,
carefully.

Noticing his roaming gaze, the kinswoman waves a dismissive hand. "The
place is empty," she reassures him. "And Nita's related. Relax." She
follows her own advice, pulling off her gloves and unzipping the leather
jacket as she stares out the rain-streaked windowpane.

Salem dips his chin in a slight nod. "Habit," he says, taking another sip.

After a moment's thought, the kinswoman turns back to look at the Walker.
"You been to the hospital yet?" Her gaze is unreadable for a moment,
guarded.

Salem's lips thin. "Yes and no. I responded to a call from Mr. Smith the
night that Dr. St. Jean was attacked, but I haven't been to the hospital
itself."

Drew nods slowly, takes another sip of coffee. "I dunno if Kaz mentioned
it to you, but I've been working as a nurse there. It's why I haven't been
looking for many volunteers in the city these days--I've been too
preoccupied with my work in there."

Salem frowns, setting down his coffee mug. "Are you still working there?"

She nods again. "It creeps me out sometimes, but it's not all that
bad--hours suck, though. I think it's important to have someone on the
inside, too, y'know?"

"And dangerous." Salem stares directly at her, his head tilted slightly in
favor of his good eye. "After Dr. St. Jean was attacked -- a targetted
ambush, mind you -- word was passed out advising family to keep clear."

Drew waves a dismissive hand, setting her mug on the table. She's not the
least bit fazed by his one-eyed stare as she answers, "Alec brings
attention to himself, whether he means to or not. I know how to work an
angle... and this is /important/, bullshit warnings aside." The tiny
kinswoman's eyes flash with a hint of iron. "And don't give me that
'protect the family' crap, hear? I've got enough eggs tucked safe in a
freezer to make the risk worth your while, okay?" Her tone and expression
is rife with bitterness--but only for a brief moment.

Salem's regard is critical, measuring, but after a moment or two, he
relents. "As you say." His tone suggests disagreement, but he's not about
to start ordering her around.

She blinks, as though surprised by his lack of vocal protest. "Who trained
*you* so well," she mutters wonderingly, her temper obviously mollified.
The kinswoman turns her attention back to her coffee, awkwardly.

Salem's lips thin. Then the Glass Walker lets his shoulders lift and fall
in a brief shrug, a touch of humorless smile twitching at his mouth. "I'm
not your father, your guardian, or your keeper. I believe that you're
underestimating the hospital's danger, but that is, after all, my
opinion."

"Well." She echoes his shrug, taking a sip from her mug. "Thanks for not
forcing the damn thing down my throat, buddy." The kinswoman tilts her
head, propping both elbows on the tabletop and eyeing him curiously. "So I
guess that means you wouldn't be up to helping me out with shit in there,
hmm?"

Salem's right eyebrow lifts slightly. "Not exactly my first choice, but
that doesn't mean I'd shrink from it. What sort of help were you thinking
of? Keeping in mind that I don't blend into crowds very well."

Drew shakes her head slowly. "I wouldn't try to get you in there--I only
trust myself in those halls, no matter how safe it looks. I was thinkin'
you might loiter outside if I maybe needed to--extract a patient or
something. Just in case." She watches him closely, her own expression
hopeful.

"Ah. Backup." Salem smiles faintly, his hands cupped around the coffee
mug. "I think that is well within my capabilities."

A full, toothy grin breaks across her features at that--notably stunning,
despite the kinswoman's grubby outer shell. "Yeah? /Excellent/... in that
case, Mr. Salem, I think we'll work beautifully together." Drew offers an
ungloved hand across the table, still grinning.

Salem grasps the proffered hand in a firm, brief shake; his palm is
calloused, but not overmuch. "Good."

Drew's own grip is warm, and surprisingly strong. Business meeting
adjourned, she relaxes back into her chair and stretches both legs out,
crossing them at the ankles. "So, Jack," she rasps conversationally.
"D'you have a story, or were you born with this much free time on your
hands?"

Salem considers the question a moment before answering. "I've only been in
town for a couple of months and had little to do except re-acclimate
myself to the local climate." He pauses to sip coffee. "Even so, I've had
too much idle time, and it looks as though I will have more through the
end of January or so." There's no hesitancy in his voice; he could be
discussing the weather.

She looks dissatisfied with his answer, but doesn't push the question.
"Y'know," the kinswoman points out lightly, "There's these things called
'jobs'."

Salem's smile is thin. "Introduce me to an employer who isn't terrified,
isn't spooked, and doesn't question why absenses happen so often near the
full moon. Who doesn't, in fact, question _anything_, or even wonder." The
bitterness is barely hinted at in his voice; the unperceptive wouldn't
hear it at all. "I think the longest I've managed to hold down a job -- a
_mundane_ job, mind you -- was, hm." He thinks a moment. "Six weeks. San
Antonio."

Drew watches him quietly for a moment. "Hm," she says, unreadably. "Well.
I think you should be prepared to see that situation change in the next
few months, Jack."

Salem arches a brow quizzically. "Care to elaborate?"

She smiles impishly at that, hiding her expression in a sip of coffee.
"No."

"Hmn." The sound's a neutral one. Salem's face is composed as he swirls
his coffee around. "Fine."

"Patience is a virtue," she quotes sagely, then crosses her eyes and sighs
with obvious exasperation. "..You are /such/ a full-moon."

"Old habits," the Walker replies. He considers the dregs of his coffee,
then swallows the lot. "You were expecting another reaction?"

Drew shrugs, running a hand through her ragged hair. "Sometimes I forget
that it's unrealistic to expect conversation outta some of you, y'know?"
Her tone is not unkind; simply matter-of-fact.

Salem steeples his fingers over the empty coffee cup. "I'm not in the
habit of spilling my life story on the first date," he replies, with dry
humor. "I'm still rather curious about the remark you refuse to elaborate
upon."

Sighing thinly, the kinswoman relents. "Well--there's this... place in the
industrial sector I bought off for real cheap. Family money and
stuff--it's a long story." Drew pushes her cooled coffee aside, tracing
some carved graffitti in the tabletop with a finger. "I was thinking to do
something useful with it--turn it into a pool hall, maybe a diner. Give
some of the city cubs a place to work, and some pocket change, y'know?"

Interest sparks across the Walker's scarred features. "Considering the
underage status of most cubs, a diner would probably be better than pool
hall or bar. How long ago did you buy the place?"

"Couple months," she answers. "And--keep this quiet, aright? I want
everything to be ready before I start publicizing. It's just an idea--and
I've got the whole building. This goddamn hole of a city could use a safe
haven, anyhow." The kinswoman shrugs, falling into her own thoughts for a
moment before glancing back at the Walker. "Think it's a good idea?"

"A city haven, owned by kin?" Salem nods. "Of course. And, if you require
help with that as well..." He spreads his hands in a self-offering
gesture, then folds them together again. "I should give you my number."

Ever prepared, the kinswoman pulls out a random scrap of paper from a
pocket and hands him a pen. "You'll hear from me in a couple days," she
assures him, eyes sparkling.

Salem jots down a phone number and then, after a moment, an e-mail
address. "Excellent," he says, passing paper and pen back to her.