ArchivedLogs:Coffee and Clues

Coffee and Clues
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Jackson
In Absentia	2013-02-12 Murphy asks Jackson about missing mutant kids over coffee.
Location <NYC> Evolve Cafe - Lower East Side
Outside there may be, still, a heavy coat of snow, but with the weather as warm as it is today that is rapidly melting into a heavy coat of /wet/. Icemelt drips from rooftops, the streets slush with melting runoff. But: warm! And in deference to Warm Jackson has eschewed heavy coats in favour of a bright blue sweatshirt with a large image of Rainbow Brite on the back and a rainbow on its sleeve, a short-sleeved tee under it (red, with the words ALL MY HEROES HAVE FBI FILES emblazoned over a wrech screenprinted on front), a long-sleeved fishnet shirt under that. Paired with a pair of capri pants (black, trimmed in purple, with liberal adornmemt of zippers and D-rings and straps and knee-high socks in very bright very not-matching patterns, bright purple hair, glittery red nails, a purple-and-red eyepatch, he is a /bright/ spot of colour in the quiet afternoon coffeeshop. Probably made only more noticeable by the very forceful push of door as he enters, sending the bell over top jangling wildly. "Hi!" he is caroling, and /maybe/ this is to the room at large? Or maybe it's to the purple-haired barista, because she looks up to answer this with a grin. "I need, like, /all/ the caffeine." "-- All the caffeine in the store?" Natalie queries, carefully. "All the caffeine in the /world/," Jackson corrects, "but I'll start with here." His fingers are taptaptapping rapidly against the messenger bag on his hip (one spot of not-very-colourful, it's black and emblazoned with a winged logo in white, FREAKANGELS written under it, but it has had /some/ colour added to it in the form of a painted-on dragonfly in brightly metallic blue.) Murphy Law is many things: Bright he is not. The man looks like he was torn out from the pages of a bad noir book--one of the ones written before they figured out how color works. The brightest thing he wears is that pink shirt--and it's pretty much pummeled in submission by the black coat and tie (or, failing that, by the scowl--seriously, this guy looks like he's perpetually offended by the arrangement of the universe he happens to be occupying). He steps in right behind Jackson. And as bright and loud as Jackson is--and hard as he is to miss--so is Murphy Law. For all the opposite reasons--because he *isn't* bright, he *isn't* loud, and he *isn't* nice. The man's like some sort of black hole of cheer; he sucks up all the positive energy and spits out nothing but misery. Misery, and nicotine: He *stinks* of cigarette smoke, despite not currently having one in his mouth. That's at least one thing he's learned: Don't smoke in places you're not allowed to smoke when one of the patrons is likely to be capable of setting your hair on fire *with their mind*. He walks right behind Jackson as he moves toward the counter--as if saddling up to order behind him. But a moment after he mentions he's looking for all the caffeine, Murphy speaks--directing his voice at Jackson. It's a low, gravelly sound--like an avalanche rumbling overhead: "You're the fella that saved that moron." Not a question. Just a statement. Like it's impossible for Jackson to be *anyone* else. Jackson's shoulders tense at this, head ducking in a wince, but despite these signs of Oh God Not Again, he's smiling quick and bright when he turns around. "Sure am, sir," he says, thick Southern drawl drawing his words out slower and longer than your average quick-talking New Yorker. "But don't hold it against me. I don't think murdering the mayor's /quite/ the way to send the right impression about mutantfolk. It'd be a heap of trouble in the aftermath." He might be tossing cheer into a black /void/ of noir but he's holding onto it doggedly anyway; upbeat tone, easy smile, even a slight bounce on the platformed toes of his chunky red-and-black sneakers. He offers a hand out -- one that is, notably, missing the smallest finger in favour of a scarred stump -- as well as, "Jax." Murphy fires up an eyebrow--it cocks up high enough to hang your coat on. He looks at the hand, then back at Jax--then back at the hand. Then back at Jax. And one eye narrows. "You're too fucking nice," he announces. Then: "Not sayin' it was wrong for you to do. Killing's killing; ain't right. Doesn't change the fact that he *is* a moron." He doesn't take the hand. Instead, he reaches into his pocket--retrieving something. The motion is slow, and practiced. "Heard you're the sort of fella who likes to help folks out. Particularly kids. Well, I'm looking to help a kid--to *find* one. He's been missing for a while. Parents are worried." He pulls out the picture. It's bent and creased and looks as worn out as this man's coat. "Fourteen. Likes frisbee, computers. Kinda short. Cute. Green. Has scales." He offers the picture to Jax--the kid is, indeed, green. And scaley. He doesn't look too happy about having his picture taken. "Answers to 'Victor'." Jackson drops his hand back to his side after an awkward pause, and shrugs a shoulder. "/Too/ nice? How's someone be too nice? There's /plenty/ enough not-nice floating 'round the world, sir, someone's gotta balance it out." Jax's eye narrows, too, but he's only /got/ the one. He peers down at the paper, frowning uncertainly as his teeth drag against his lip. Wiggle at one lipring. Click against metal. "I've seen a lot of kids," he answers, eventually. "But that one's not familiar. Is he a runaway? Like, homeless? I work with a lot of homeless kids. Lotta homeless mutants. Likely some one'a them's knowed something." He turns back to the counter, here, flashing Natalie another smile. "Soy mocha, please? Triple shot, extra sugar, hazelnut syrup. Thanks, honey-honey." He drops a tip into the jar even before paying for the actual drink, though the paying comes next. "Are his parents actually worried?" he asks then, bluntly, "or are his parents -- I mean, there's a /lot/ of mutant kids out there because home wasn't really /safe/." "Yeah. I know the tune. Not looking to drag the kid anywhere he don't want to be. Ain't even looking to tell his parents where he is. I'm just a messenger; they want to know he's alright--and want me to give him a letter. Present, too. Missed Christmas. Makes you all teary-eyed, right?" Murphy does not look teary-eyed. "They seem like decent folk. Not that I'd know much different. Point is, this ain't the time and place to be wandering 'round the streets looking anything south of normal." A pause, then, before he adds: "You hear anything about the sewers? Kids going down there? To hide?" "Yeah, I know. My kids are blue." Which Jax evidently decides is enough explication on the subject of understanding the current social climate re: looking south of normal, because here he just steps aside, leaning back against the counter out of the way of the cashier to wait for his drink. "I've --" He hesitates, a good long moment, tipping his head up to glance over Murphy contemplatively. In the end he shrugs, a quick twitch of one shoulder. "I think everyone who /should/ know where mutant kids hide out already knows how to find them," he says, in the end. "Kids hide all kindsa places, and the ones hiding usually got a reason for not wanting nobody to know where at. You got a card or something?" Murphy's eyes narrow. But a card is produced; its edges are, predictably, worn. There is nothing about this man that *isn't* haggard. It proclaims, quite simply: MURPHY LAW -- Private Detective. Included are a phone number, fax number, and cell phone number. "Maybe. But in my experience, folks who help kids hide usually got something to hide themselves." "Hey, who knows. Maybe the kid's happier than a centipede at an ass-kicking contest. But I don't know that. And I don't like *not* knowing." "Sometimes." Jackson takes the card, looking over it thoughtfully, with a faint lift of his pierced eyebrows. He pockets it without comment. "Sometimes they just got experience with the kind of stuff out there worth running from." He turns, stretching up onto his toes to claim the very large coffee being handed to him, together with a brightly chirrupped thanks and a bright flash of smile. The smile lingers through his first slow sip, as he turns back to Murphy, but then fades into simple thoughtfulness. "Given the city these days, though, I'd be surprised if he was all /that/ happy. Y'tried the cops, they mighta booked him for being /too/ mutant." Jax doesn't even sound like he's joking, much. "I mean, we're a crime now, after all." That's a /slight/ exaggeration, really. But only slight. "Heard. Shit sucks. They send you a ticket for blocking that bullet yet?" This is what passes in Murphy's head for humor. But then: "Kid looks too damn weird--no offense--not to throw up a red flag. If the cops nabbed him, they'd catch him on the missing person's registry. Not a lot of entries that read 'Green, Scaley, Spikes For Hair'. Still, worth a shot. Maybe he got nabbed but one of them turned soft and let him loose without processing." Suddenly, perhaps unexpectedly--Murphy pushes: "Your kids. They happy?" If the question surprises Jax, it surprises Murphy even more. He looks mildly shocked that he suddenly asked it. "Yeah, that /is/ kinda a unique descriptor," Jax agrees, the ret urn of his smile a little wry. "You never know, though. One of my twins's been picked up --" He stops, though, hesitating at the last question. He eyes Murphy with a slight note of bewilderment, perhaps gauging the sincerity of the question. The pause stretches into a sip of mocha. And then stretches on, a few beats longer, though in the end Jax elects to answer it as sincere: "Some days," he says, shrugging. "It's not easy. Doesn't a week go by someone's not throwing a punch at 'em or spitting on 'em for the crime of walking down the sidewalk. And that's /above/ the stuff life's already thrown at 'em." He grins, a little crooked. "And above the normal stuff /all/ teenagers gotta handle. They deal with it in their ways. I try to make things better, 'least at home where I can. Ain't ever gonna be /easy/, though, you know?" Finally, Murphy grunts. And fishes into his coat pocket, pulling out his wallet. A fiver is produced, slapped on the bar, and followed by an order: "Coffee. Just coffee. *Black*." He then turns--glancing back at Jax. "Old man used to tell me that sort of shit builds 'character'. Figure kids like yours must have shitloads of it by now. Fuck, they must be walking Victor Hugo novels." While he waits for the coffee, he adds: "You ain't too fucking nice. I just don't *like* nice. Nothing personal. Nice just never did me any favors. Maybe your kids'll work out better." When the coffee is delivered, he takes it in one hand--and holds out the photo of the green kid with the other. "You wanna be *real* nice, though--keep this? Show it around, maybe. Somebody says something, call me. I ain't looking to scare the kid. I just want to know he ain't dead. That, and give him his goddamn Christmas present." "Oh, they got character in spades," Jackson says, with an easy laugh. He regards Murphy with long consideration, curious as he taps the rim of his cup against his teeth. "Maybe you ain't met the right kinda nice. Nice does a lot. But it's gotta be nice with --" His smile quirks a little wider. "With character." He reaches out to take the photo, studying it again and then opening the flap of his bag to slip it inside. "I'll ask around," he says, and sounds like he means it. "I'd be going spare if t'was my kids that turned up missing." He takes another sip of coffee, and lifts the cup in salute. "See you, then, sir. Maybe. Good luck with your searching." "Yeah. Luck." That's all Murphy responds with. Coffee in hand, he heads out of the shop, eyebrows knitted, grinding in thought. More data added to the machine--more pieces of the puzzle to grind away at.