The Grab

February 16, 2016:

Waller calls on Floyd. Time to do a snatch and grab


NPCs: People at Sharkeys

Mentions: Harley Quinn


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

Sharkey's Blues and BBQ was nothing to really shake a stick at. Four walls with few extended parts which add an extra stage towards the back, a fat ol' man at the top crooning away quietly as he plays music akin to B.B. King and the greats. The guitar he played within his hands was busted up and the mic itself stood on a stand that seemed a bit bent. Over to the left, was a bar that had seen better days, a crack down the middle from a recent fight, not too much of a selection but the cheap stuff was often the good stuff in most opinion. The old bar tender was slow moving as he poured drinks, the lady who crosses the floor with the tray was a large woman by the name of Bertha; a no nonsense woman who practically ran the show at Sharkey's. Whatever you wanted she could get it. Even if you needed a place to lay low from catching your ass in a sling she was able to provide it with a price. The wood creaks whenever anyone walked on it, the tables were slightly uneven. But it was a feel good place, one that served the best barbecue that side of Brooklyn.

Which is why Waller is there.

She had her plate full, ribs and other things piled upon with a large mug of Miller Lite. Side of macaroni and the special of green beans and baked macaroni to boot. There was a little bit of gravy there, but no one knows what the gravy is used for. For some reason this place served gravy like a dipping sauce and it was one of the best.

She put the call out to Floyd a while ago, and as she ate, mushing her food over onto the next, taking a bite here and there, chewing… she waited. No rush really. She was enjoying the silence of no conversation and some bad ass blues.

Floyd Lawton finishes his smoke out the door, flicking it down and grinding it beneath his heel. This no smoking in bars shit is fucking ridiculous, but probably goes with the wheat-grass lemon-licking antiquing vintage artisan motherfuckin' pussbags that lived around this goddamn neighborhood. This place, at least, was a throwback, but still had to follow the bubble boy rules to some degree. They called that progress.

He shoves in, leather jacket over a dingy Motley Crue t-shirt. Jeans and his obvious holsters, pistols tucked under his arms. Bouncer thought about saying something, made some eye contact, thought again.

Floyd makes his way up and reaches down to snack a green bean, tossing it in his mouth and grabbing a seat. He kicks up his feet and snaps his fingers at a waitress, "Hey, babes, gimme two Miller longnecks, a greasy ham steak, fries, coleslaw and a chocolate milkshake so thick it'll clog the can," he says.

So ordered, he turns his attention to his boss, sunglasses pushed up now to hide his eyes, "Been a while, Wall."

Her head shakes ever so slightly, her cheeks bulging with a bit of food that she continues to chew the needed amount to ground it within her teeth. "I'm really tempted to send your ass right back outside to do that all over again. You're going to show some respect in here even if I hate to shoot your dick off to get it." Her hand lifts, offering a little bit of a hello towards Bertha. She wasn't going to allow the woman to watch her 'work', as it were.

"Please." She says to the woman, who rolls her eyes towards Floyd to get it done.

"You and this place are going to get will acquainted in due time." *smacksmacksmack*

A rib was taken up and bitten into, a nod given as she swallows down the bit of meat that she chews off. "Been a while indeed. What have you gotten yourself into other than stalking that reporter.. heard she did a number on you." Amusement, pure and clear. She's heard about that one.

Floyd Lawton smirks and leans back in his chair a bit, "If you want respect, honest, there's a few thousand slabs o' military beef you could call in to give you yes ma'am an' no ma'am an' sit here with their backs up straight and wipin' their mouth sand kissin' your ass. Some of 'em probably even be willing to do the kind of shady shit you want me for," he says.

"But you and I both know they can't do what I do. If anybody could, you'd use them instead. I get the job 'cause I'm the only one you can rely on. So, as for me being a disrespectful fuck? Well, you lie down with dogs, Weatherman, you gonna get some fleas. Nip, nip, suck suck. I like the taste of your blood," he says.

"So, why don't you save the bossin' around an' tell me who you're wanting dead?"

"I don't want your respect." Amanda murmurs easily. "I just want your gun hand. You will however treat these patrons with a modicum of it. I don't care how you do it. But you'll do it." With that instant, the plate slams down upon the table as well as a few double necked millers. Top still on but shifted a little to the side.

"Don't want anyone killed. I want someone found." She finishes off the rack pretty quickly, taking up a napkin to wipe away at her hands as she leans back, shifting a pack of newports from her pocket to draw out a stick to place into her mouth. Another one was slipped from it's spot, laid upon the table for him to take, her lighter produced and soon flicked to life as she takes a deep inhale.

"And I want her in one piece.

Floyd Lawton pops the gum into his mouth and chews for a long moment. "Look at you, stickin' up for the little guy. Probably warms the cockles of yer dead heart, pretendin' to give a damn about people you'd blow up tomorrow in the name of national security. But at least you said please an' thank you, so I guess they'll burn in hell feelin' respected," he grins.

He chews for a moment as his food is brought out, a tone shifting in his voice to wheedling false sincerity, "Well, gosh, darlin', just thank you so much, ain't you a peach," he says, popping a fry into his mouth, not minding the taste mingling with the gum. Unsophisticated palate.

"You want someone brought in whole an' healthy and you thought of me? Damn, you -must- be desperate."

Amanda rolls her eyes, taking another inhale and lets it blow out. She was nearing to the point of having it all be enough and tossing him out on his ass with a bullet in the head. So she makes this one quick.

"I'm not desperate. You're expendable. I want you to get me a location on Harley Quinn. And pick her up if you can. I'll give you say.. three weeks. And this is me being generous. You know, to warm my cold dead heart." She draws to a stand, putting the cigarette out in a piece of unfinished rib. "You know where to locate me. Usual place."

Floyd Lawton snorts. That made it clearer. It wasn't just that he was expendable - it's that he was scum. She couldn't have anyone on the payroll with anything resembling morals because she was trying to bring in Quinn. And Floyd had no doubt what kind of plans Wall had for Harley - she wasn't anybody's guardian angel.

"Better her than her jacked up sugar daddy," he mutters. He stabs into his steak, cutting off a few pieces and popping them into his mouth for a long, slow chew, 'You got any idea where giggle panties is holed up, or you mistakin' me for a god damn detective?

There was a little pause, considering.

Floyd was shit at finding people, that was true. But it was time to up his skills in the matter. She knew Harley's place, where she could be, knows where all of the possibilities are but.. no. She was going to make this really, really hard.

"Gotham." And that's all she offers up before she leaves out of the blues joint, with a suck of her tongue against her teeth.

Floyd Lawton snorts and shakes his head. At least it was his old hunting ground. He still had old friends - and enemies - around there. So long as Flappy Bird and his shitbird pets didn't climb into his way. Not that he minded doing a little recreational hunting, but Waller wanted him low profile and to actually pretend he gave a shit about collateral damage.

He'd find the crazy little bitch. Alive. Provided she didn't require something more permanent.

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