ArchivedLogs:Business or Pleasure

Business or Pleasure
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Eric
In Absentia	2013-02-25 Murphy asks Eric more questions about murder-drones. Also, PHONE NUMBERS.
Location <NYC> Central Park North
It's a hard trick, getting lucky -- but even lightning's been known to strike a place more than twice. And hey; Murphy's heard that when it comes to Eric, getting lucky is *easy*. So maybe it was just a matter of time. The man's smoking like a chimney when he approaches Eric, still on his bike, pausing for a gulp of water. He's dressed like a *proper* dick today -- a good, expensive black coat. Freshly shaved face. No bandages or wounds (maybe just a nick or two from shaving; he's not used to it, after all). Even a tie! "Evenin', officer," Murphy says, and it sounds like something half-way between a growl and an invitation. "Was hoping to get a chance to chat with you." Before he goes on, Murphy quickly clarifies: "Strictly business, though." Eric looks up from the bike in some surprise, glancing over the figure that was approaching. "Oh. Hello. How are you doing?" he asks, eyes flicking over the man. A small smile tugs at his lips. "I... didn't recognize you at first," he says, smirk tugging at his lips as he gestures at the other man's clothing. "What's up?" "Yeah, yeah. Sometimes I dress like I actually got a real job," Murphy explains away his current attire -- before adding, with a slower nod and a glance around the premises -- as if to confirm no one else is in ear-shot. "Found the kid. Got a new job. Been snooping around a certain incident a few weeks ago. Looked into the report, and wouldn't you know it," Murphy says, "I find you're the officer involved. Funny how that shit works." Murphy doesn't sound like he finds it funny at all. I mean, he's not even _laughing_! "Did a little more digging. Hit a wall pretty fast. Homeland Security don't like snoops snoopin' around acts of domestic terrorism -- go figure," he says. "Figured I'd go right to the source. Also figurin' you can't tell me much, but I figured I'd see what you *could* tell me." "Good." Eric says, with a wide smile. The smile fades as the other man tells him what he is looking for. His arms cross over his chest and he studies the other man, carefully. "Yes. That's right. The brass has come down on me pretty hard about what I can and can't say. They're buttoning everything up tight as a dress on an Elizabethan woman." The bike police officer glances around him and he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket. "Light?" he asks, holding the cigarette out between two fingers to the other man. "What do you want to know? Off the record." Murphy looks surprised. As surprised as Murphy *can* look, anyway; it consists of nary more than those two eyebrows of his elevating by about a centimeter. The lighter is produced, instantly -- the same one from before. Marine Corps insignia and everything. He doesn't know why he keeps it around -- he's got no love for the corps. Maybe because if you flash it to the right people, it can get you out of a ticket. As the lighter *CLINKS* and produces that flame, Murphy goes on: "Everything I can get. Particularly: Did the incident involve somethin' you might refer to as 'murder-drones'?" "That's not quite how I put it down on paper, but..." Eric shrugs his shoulders, lifting the cigarette to his lips and taking a long drag as he stuffs the cigarette pack into a pocket firmly with one hand. He breathes the smoke out in a long breath, and nods. "Yeah. Big, flying drone things, like you see them shoot videos with in Hollywood. I don't know about murder, but they were drones, to be sure." Murphy narrows his eyes. Thinking, now. Eyebrows grinding, churning. "You probably already described 'em to the brass," Murphy says. "But I was hoping to get a description of my own. Whatever you can remember. Approximate size. Color. Configuration -- if you remember how many propellers they had." Then: "And the fella -- the one mentioned in the newspapers -- he was -- controlling them? Dodging them?" "Dodging. Yelling, scared. I called into dispatch and got ESU and the bomb squad rolling, and thirty seconds later... bam. The things just blew up. Not a normal explosion, either. Not a high-explosive one. Incinerated, more like." Eric says, shivering. "I dunno, man. About the size of... a suitcase? Green, black... I wasn't looking too closely. I was trying to get the civillians out of the way and figure out how to fight them off with a trashcan lid." Murphy's glare becomes _palpable_. "The explosion," he says. "You said it wasn't ordinary. Was it noisy? Or did it have more of a hiss?" And then, following up: "Green? They were -- _green_?" He seems to find that... deeply puzzling. Again, the eyebrows grind, processing this information. "Greenish. Brownish." Eric shrugs his shoulders, non-committal. He takes another drag on his cigarette as he looks at the other man, calmly. "I've worked with high explosives back when I did SWAT work back in Georgia. That ain't no high explosive. Bright flash, little bang, lots of dust." "Mmn. Alright," Murphy says. "Alright, that'll do. Ain't much, but it'll do." Funnily enough, he's not writing anything Eric's saying down. Then again, it's not like there's much for him to remember. "The kid who was dodgin'. You ever get any leads on him? Anything that'd pan out?" A moment, then, before he adds -- in case it's relevant: "Not lookin' to get him in any trouble. Don't care who he is. But this is important." "Not my case. I was off-duty when I walked into it." Eric says, with a shrug. "You'd need to ask one of the detectives on the anti-terrorism division. They're the ones running this one to ground." he says, glancing at the tip of his cigarette and frowning. He sucks another long drag and then stubs it out on the frame of his bicycle, pocketing the butt. Murphy laughs, then -- harsh, sudden, vicious. "They ain't gonna tell me shit," he says. "You already gave me more than every-fucking-one else combined." He doesn't sound frustrated over this; if anything, he sounds _amused_. "There a reason you're stickin' your neck out for me, by the way? I figure you don't have to tell me shit -- but you seem pretty alright with it. Not that I mind, but I'm curious outta habit." Eric shrugs, with a wolf's smile on his face. "I figure you won't let it come back to me. And... fuck it, I was off duty anyway, you know? They can tell me to cram it with stuff that happens on duty, but off?" He shakes his head. "Besides. You seem like an alright guy, for a PI." "I'm an asshole," Murphy says, and his tone indicates that this isn't a warning; it's not even some sort of self-depreciating aside. It's just a statement of fact. "Been one ever since I can remember. And I can remember pretty damn far," he adds. The corner of his mouth *almost* twitches up; like he's enjoying some private joke at his own expense. Then: "Been tryin' to figure you." His eyebrows grind together in that expression of thought. "Ain't many folks I *can't* figure. But with you, I'm missin' some piece. Not sure what." Then, more casual -- like he's discussing the weather. Or fishing. "Heard it from someone that those drones might be built to hunt mutants." "Maybe you just need to get to know me better," Eric drawls, eyes twinkling mischievously. He puts his fingers in his belt, glancing around him for a moment. "Yeah, the guy was yelling something about that. Uhh... chasing him, he said. He certainly jumped like he was a mutant. Moved faster than I thought was possible, and jumped right onto a roof top." His lips quirk into a bemused smile. "Actually, I think they said that the things hated him." He snorts. "Be careful. You might like the cut of my jib right now, but eventually I rub _everyone_ the wrong way." His own cigarette glows, the tip flashing with heat -- he soon adds: "'Course, that don't mean I don't rub the _right_ way now and then." At the mention of 'hated', his eyebrows -- again -- grind together. "Huh. Well, figure the things couldn't _know_ you're a mutant. Ain't anyone perfected _that_ technology yet... I hope." Those last two words are tacked on; quiet-like, easy to mistake for a thoughtless exhalation. But they're also a lure. Murphy's fishing. Eric's eyes light up with the other man's words, and his smirk widens. "You seem like the kind of guy I'd like to rub the right way," he drawls, accent adding an 'h' in a few places it does not belong. "Who knows what they've got cookin'. If I didn't see the feds looking so pissed about it, I might have thought they were government. They certainly were the kind of technology you don't expect to see in the middle of Manhattan." he says, not taking the bait. Murphy notices the lack of nibbling on that lure. But he's persistent, this one. The cigarette flares up again as he mulls this over, stirring it about in his brain-pan: "'Course I do. I'm an asshole. People _love_ assholes. Most of the time, they figure gettin' in our good graces is a challenge. And it is." And then, at the mention of FBI being pissed: "Maybe they don't like the competition. Tech like that in Manhattan, though -- comin' out of some street corner? Got an odd stink on it." Murphy narrows his eyes, looking just slightly past Eric's ear. "This thing -- you think you might recognize it if you saw it again? A picture, maybe? I... know a guy." He 'knows' a guy? "The thing? Yeah. I mean, I might not be able to tell it from something similar, but I'd recognize at least the gist." Eric says, with a little bit of a shrug of his shoulders. The radio on his chest blares, and Eric tilts his head as he listens to it for a moment before turning his attention back onto Murphy. "I hope it's then, to tell you true. I don't want to think about someone other than them having explosives in downtown new york." Murphy snorts. "Then don't think about it." But that's more of a teasing rib than a genuine criticism; he's grinning shortly thereafter: "I might swing back 'round here a bit later with a book of pictures. Doubt I'll have much luck -- figure if the FBI couldn't sniff this out, I sure as shit can't. But it's worth a shot. I know somebody the FBI don't." 'Mutant' doesn't leave Murphy's lips, but it's implied in the silence that follows. "Can I get your number? Trackin' you down turned out to be a bit of a challenge." Eric raises an eyebrow and he smirks at Murphy. "I'll tell you what, Murphy," he drawls, leaning against his bike. "I'll make it your choice. I can give you my business card which gives you my desk number." He glances around him, significantly - at the trail, the park surrounding them. "Which is what I give people for work. Or I can give you my cell phone number. But I only give that out for fun." he says, eyes flicking up and down Murphy. He winks, lasciviously. "Tricky bugger, ain't you? Can't blame you. I've been a bit of a cagey bastard," Murphy replies. "Alright, then. Let's say I'll take both. Because I'm a complicated man," he explains, leaning in closer -- the cigarette inching downward, "but mostly because, hell, I'm /interested/ in both." Eric considers this for a moment, though his eyes twinkle and his smirk widens with the response. "Al'ight. Seems fair. Keep in mind my desk phone is tapped." he says with a wink, as he pulls a card from the inside of his jacket, along with a pen. He scribbles on the back of the card and holds it out to Murphy, palm-up. "So watch your words." Murphy looks at the card -- and the number on the flip-side. The way his eyes look at it -- it's like a camera taking a picture. *CLICK-whirrr*. But he's learned enough about people to know what's expected of him -- so he takes the card anyway. Because it would probably be weird if he acted like just /seeing/ it was enough. "I always watch my words," he says, before adding: "Problem is, I don't always give a fuck." Then: "But I ain't aimin' to get you in trouble. Not _that_ kinda trouble." "Poking around in the government's business is liable to get you disappeared just as likely as it's like to get me fired." Eric says, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Self-interest is a strong motivation. So am I." he says, gesturing to himself with a wink. Modest, he's not, folks. "Glad to hear it. I don't mind trouble, though I prefer to avoid it where my bosses are concerned." At the comment of being 'disappeared', he laughs. Vicious, hollow, nasty. "Oh yeah," he says, grinning. "I've walked on that rope before, _believe_ me." The smoke that swells from his nostrils -- from his mouth -- along with that grin, it almost gives him a demonic mien. "Hell, maybe I'll even tell you about it. Not over the phone," he says, before adding: "Least not the business line. I've got to go." The card is still in his hand; now it's disappearing in his jacket. "I won't bring you trouble. Ain't my style. _Used_ to be, but nowadays I don't make trouble for people. I just act like an asshole -- and get paid to do it. I'll call you soon," he says, but he doesn't say on which line. Eric chuckles and nods, once, twice. "Not over the phone, I think, yes. Either phone, for some conversations, are better." He circles around his bike and mounts it, kicking up the kickstand but letting it settle back onto one foot, glancing over Murphy, once. "See you around, Murphy. Give me a call." he says. He tosses up his hand to his forehead in a loose, rough salute, a wink, and then puts his feet down on the pedals, pushing himself off of the ground and slowly gaining speed as he heads down the path.