It is a chilly afternoon along the streets of the Garment District, but that does not stop the walk-and-talk patrols of the members of the New York Police Department. Or, in Eric's case, the slow-bicycling-around-and-watching patrol. Does not roll off the tongue as well. He is dressed in a bike police officers' uniform, though it is partially covered by a winter jacket and a pair of waterproof leggings that are bulky enough to ward off some of the cold. His smile is pleasant enough as he moves along, occasionally pulling up onto the sidewalk to talk to some passer-by. That is what he had just done, apparently, as his blue bike is leaning against its kickstand and he is pointing down the long street. "It's two more blocks that way, and then two blocks on your left, al'ight?" he asks, a Georgia accent trimming the letters out of his words. Not that the herd of Japanese tourists he is speaking too might be able to distinguish the difference, caught up in taking pictures of him, the ground, and the surroundings as they are.
"Officer." The man who speaks is a grim stormcloud sweeping down hard on the bright rainbow of that chilly afternoon. Or at least, he *would* be, if there were any rainbows in sight. There aren't, so he's just a fucking grim stormcloud.
Murphy Law looks like he's been through Hell. Better yet: It looks like Hell's been through him. His forehead's got a bloody gash, covered up with a band-aid; his suit looks like it's been beaten with a tire-iron, and he's got an unlit cigarette in his mouth--like he can't decide whether or not to light it or just give up. The man is every bad caricature of 'hard-boiled noir' in the book. He also smells like nicotine.
"Wonderin' if you could help me. Lookin' for somebody--lost kid. Asked around the precinct, got directed to you."
Eric glances to the other man briefly, then apologizes briefly to the tourists and turns to look over him more closely. This, of course, is noteworthy enough for the tourists to take more pictures. "I'm surprised they didn't direct you to the hospital," Eric says, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "Are you al'ight?" he pauses again, eyes flickering over Murphy's face. "Should I call an ambulance?"
"Naw. S'fine. Just need a shower." He finally decides, yes, he will smoke that cigarette. It might be a calculated move--when he pulls the lighter out, it's a small, brass thing--with the Marine Corps logo on the side. It lights with a *CLINK*, burning a bright, metallic orange. His other hand reaches into his coat.
"Kid's name is Victor Borkowski. From Illnois. Runaway. Parents are worried sick." Murphy produces the photo. Looks about 14. Cute. Green. Scales. Doesn't look happy about having his picture taken.
"New policy in the city on mutants, figured he might get picked up. Though he's on the missing person registry, so I *also* figured that if you boys processed him, he'd be on his way back home. So *then* I figured, hey, maybe he got picked up and someone went all soft and decided to turn 'em loose /without/ processing."
The lighter does not go unnoticed. Indeed, some of Eric's concern drops out of his expression, and he reaches forward to take the photo and study it, carefully. "And they sent you to me, huh? I'm not sure if I should be insulted or not." He shakes his head, bemusedly. "Policy from the brass is that we don't stop mutants unless we see them change somehow, or do something. Not for just lookin' like this." he says, pursing his lips as he studies the picture for a few moments. Then he chuckles and extends the picture back towards the other man. "Haven't seen him. And I think I'd remember... green. I've seen lots of other colors, but not green yet."
"Yeah, figured. Got that much working for me," Murphy replies, though by the way he says it, it doesn't sound like he's got much else. "Keep it, I got dozens. Maybe pin it up on a billboard or somethin' in the office, along with this." He produces his business card. Tattered and worn, it reads: MURPHY LAW--PRIVATE DETECTIVE. A phone number, cell phone number, and fax number are included. No email. "Somebody sees it, maybe riles up a memory, they give me a call. Ain't looking to do much--just find out if he's dead."
Then, quite out of the blue, Murphy nods his head and pushes another angle: "You hear much about kids in the sewers? Folks who ain't got the looks for the high life going down there to hide?"
Eric studies the card for a moment, as if it would bring him some memory, in silence. "Can I see your ticket?" he asks, even as he tucks the card into his jacket pocket. He glances back down at the photo before folding it up neatly and putting it, too, safely into his jacket. "Can't be too careful." he says, with a sprawling smile. "Yeah, I mean, I've heard the same as everyone else. Mole mutants deep in the sewers." He snorts. "They cleared out a bunch of homeless a while ago, threw 'em out and barricaded up the sewers. I doubt there's much living down there now 'sides the rats."
"Yeah, sure," Murphy grunts--as if he's surprised the man's only *now* asking for his license. He reaches and pulls out his wallet--it's a battered, roughed up thing. It includes, perhaps to no surprise, a license to carry a concealed firearm. "You got some mutants that can survive just about anywhere. Figure it wouldn't be a hard trick to live down there if you got the right genes." This is more of an aside, though--like Murphy thinking outloud. He suddenly asks, again: "You ever hear of somebody callin' themselves 'Nox'? Doin' things with shadows?"
Eric peers at the license for several moments, turning it over in his hands. His eyes flick at the other man's waist automatically, stance a little bit more defensive, one hand freeing itself, as he reads the firearms endorsement. He passes the license back in one hand, and he shrugs. "I mean, perhaps not. But I've never seen anything but wild speculation on it." he says, shaking his head once. "Nox? Like... from Harry Potter?" he sounds incredulous. "What kinda' name is that?"
Curiously, by the looks of it, there's no indication of a firearm *on* Murphy--no telltale bulge, no holster strap. If he's packing, it must be pretty small--and pretty well hidden. "Yeah," he responds, taking the license back. "Lot of 'em give themselves cute names like that. Dunno why. Anyway, thanks for the help. You see something, give me a call? Parents want me to give the kid a letter. An' a Christmas present." Murphy shrugs, as if this impulse was completely beyond his comprehension.
Eric studies the PI for several moments then smiles. "Yeah, I'll do just tha'." He says, his smile growing. He pauses for several moments, glancing back up to the other man's forehead. "That yours?" he says, nodding in the general direction of Murphy's head. "Or should I see the other guy?" he says, a light teasing tone in his voice.
Murphy seems a little surprised at the question--along *with* the tone. He doesn't appear displeased, though: "Got into a little tiff. You know. Boy stuff." He grunts, before adding: "Other guy's fine. Nothing a long soak and ice-patch won't cure."
Eric's eyes crinkle at the edges and he shakes his head, amused, clearly. "Boy stuff." The smile cracks slightly into a grin, still teasing. "Well, good to hear it. Battery isn't looked quite as kindly upon as adults as it is among boys."
"Aw, don't worry, officer. I don't batter; I only lightly braise. Breaking things ain't my style," he adds. "Not here to crack any eggs. Just turnin' up the heat and boilin' a few. And only 'cuz it helps get the job done." He plucks up the cigarette, an eyebrow suddenly raising; when he exhales smoke, it comes out his nostrils--long streams of it that briefly give him the appearance of some vicious, sluggish dragon. "I ain't keepin' you from the job, am I?"
Eric shrugs, non-committal. "The way I see it, I'm helpin' a citizen. And isn't that my job?" he asks, rhetorically. He does take a step back to lean against the seat of his bike and briefly look around him, shifting his weight from one arm to the other. "Now I want fuckin' eggs and bacon," he mutters, under his breath. Louder, he continues, "Glad to hear it."
He laughs, then; it's a short, vicious noise--it sounds as if he caught it off of a fellow who died of it. "You're alright," Murphy announces, as if he's made this decision quite suddenly--as if, perhaps, Eric has successfully passed some unspoken test. "You got an itch to fuck something up with me sometime, gimme a call." He's got a... rough hand. He brings it around to give Eric a slap between the shoulders--it's certainly a chummy blow, but under different circumstances, it could *easily* qualify as assaulting an officer. Murphy doesn't seem to give a fuck. "I'll keep an eye out for you." And then he's turning, heading down the street, still smoking harder than a chimney.
Eric returns the backslap with a laugh and a grin, shaking his head amusedly, even after taking the blow solidly. "And I, you. Maybe I'll take you up on that offer," he says, and his tone verges from playful to have even hints of - is that flirtation? - in the sound. "And I'll keep an eye out for your find." he says, patting the jacket pocket in which he had put the photo.
"Wouldn't make it if I wasn't lookin' forward to it." The words are more to himself than Eric, as an after-thought--the officer might not catch them. Exactly what did Murphy mean by 'fuck something up', anyway? If the flirty tone throws him off, he doesn't show it; the man's either oblivious, impervious, or receptive. With Murphy, it's sometimes hard to tell: There are *rocks* that express themselves more clearly.
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