Jim pages: What.
Murphy pages: Murphy grunts, his voice a low, harsh growl: "Iolaus Saavedro. You do much digging on him?"
Jim pages: "Some." Jim sounds vaguely disenchanted, vaguely distracted. There's a sound of traffic in the background, "What you got?"
Murphy pages: 'Nothing. Just an itchy feeling in my crotch. Talked to the lady from last night. She was sweet as sugar up till I mentioned the clinic. Was fine with it, till I let it slip that I don't think the doctor's a freak. Shit promptly went Biblical. Started mumbling about cages and shit. 'Luring the cattle to the slaughter'.'
Jim pages: A long moment of silence follows, rife with New York background music: a beeping of car horns, a bus roars past, somewhere in the blurry-static distance is the whine of an ambulance siren. Finally: "Yeah." Another bout of city blaring. "You can tell her he checks out legit from my end. I know a guy working for him - pretty vicious telepath. If the guy was hinky, he'd know by now."
Murphy pages: Murphy grunts. "Alright. That makes my crotch a little less itchy. But, the way she looked at me--figurin' I should get word to her mighty quick. Last thing he needs are the *freaks* coming after him, too. Something else she said. The *way* she said it. 'They're more subtle than that'. Gave me the sense she's spent some time in ugly places. Uglier than the sewers, at least." A pause, then: "Some place with doctors, I'm guessing."
Jim pages: "Don't stop scratchin' yet, buddy," you can /hear/ Jim gritting his teeth in a grim smile, "This one goes deeper than your mom's last pelvic exam. Ugly don't cover half of it. Reel in your shady girlfriend. I owe you a story." There's a sharp exhale that can only be mistaken for a plume of cigarette smoke. "You know you're not gonna get paid for this, Murph. There's no money, just blood, sweat and tears if you get to the end."
Murphy pages: Murphy is silent for a moment. Then: "I read some shit I wasn't supposed to. Back when I was on the goon-squad." Murphy's way of saying 'back when I was in the military as a mutant'. The man's still paranoid enough not to say 'Weapon X' on an open line. "Caught a whiff of something about--I figured it for horseshit," Murphy interrupts himself. "So, yeah. Next time we get a chance, I'll want to hear if it's otherwise."
The other bit--about money, blood, sweat, tears. It prompts a snort. "The schadenfreude'll be enough. The look on people's faces when that place opens--it'll be enough to keep me warm for *years*. I'm gonna go poke my dick in some holes and see who's really pissed about this. But I *want* that story, Jim. It's one I don't know--and there ain't many of those around."
Jim pages: "One of these days, man," Jim sounds gritted-teeth cheerful, "You might just hear a story you wish you hadn't." He barks a dry, flat laugh into the phone, "That, or maybe I will. And I'll have no one to blame but myself. Alright, you cock-happy snoop. I wanna hear /your/ story then while we're at it. Let's swap notes. I'll show you mine if you show me yours. Meet me at the reservoir at eleven. We can see who's picked up an uglier rash."
Murphy pages: 'It's a date, gorgeous. I'll bring the lube, you bring the condoms. And none of that kinky shit--the glow-in-the-dark ones give my dick hives. *click*'
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