ArchivedLogs:Hatching a Plot

Hatching a Plot
Dramatis Personae Cage, Murphy
In Absentia	2013-05-29 Murphy hatches a plot.
Location <NYC> Heroes for Hire - Midtown East
The front room of the Heroes for Hire office has the secretary's desk, a small filing cabinet, a computer, and a ceiling fan. Janice, the aforementioned secretary is a sixty-something woman who's accent clearly marks her as being from Eastern European descent, though probably one generation removed judging by how well she speaks English. Janice was almost certainly selected by some busy-body lawyer on Luke's behalf, probably to keep him free of any more accidental law suits. The paint is faded, but everything pretty much works. Off to one side is the bathroom, and the other door leads back to Luke's office. There's isn't much in Luke's actual office but a small desk and a swivel chair pushed into one corner, with a pair of straight backed chairs on the other side of it. A couch is by the window that looks out over the city, with Times Square in the distance. All things considered, its actually a pretty decent little spot. Luke is standing in the front room, newspaper in hand. He just set a coffee down for Janice on her desk and is waiting for his own coffee pod to piddle out the good stuff into his mug. He tries to make a suggestion about Janice's ongoing computer solitaire game, pointing over her shoulder, but she slaps his huge hand away before he can touch the screen. "No helping!" she caws at him. Apparently that would be cheating. Luke just stands back and smirks, waiting. WHUMP. Enter the Law. /Murphy/ Law. He steps into Luke's office like Cage owes him money, and the look on his face says 'I Aim To Collect'. He's got a scowl that could wilt dandelions at thirty paces and, at the moment, he might smell just a /little/ bit of gun-smoke and powdered concrete. Black coat, white shirt, black tie -- and, at the moment, a metal cane with arm-brace. He's not leaning too heavily on it, but he /does/ seem to be. Limping, just a little. Also, Murphy brought some props -- a rolled up newspaper, held in his other hand. An unlit cigarette in his mouth. And a set of peepers -- with which he is peepin' Cage, peering past Janice like she ain't even there. "Cage," Murphy announces with the sort of voice police officers use when they're about to give you a ticket, "got a job for you." Luke stares at Murphy for a second, nonplussed by his manner. He looks at him just long enough for the coffee maker to click off, and then turns his back to Murphy to start prepping it. "Yeah ok. As long as you're not a cop. We don't work for cops. Do we Janice?" "No we don't, Mr. Cage," she answers in a cold voice. "So what's on your mind, Mr. Not-a-cop?" The newspaper gets tossed. Thwap! Right on top of Janice's nice, neat, organized desk. It's folded up with a red circle around an article entitled 'CHELSEA RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN'. A brief glance gives the usual; a homeless person in Chelsea, EYES TORN OUT, corpse left to the cold. "Not a cop," Murphy agrees, though it's more of a /growl/ than some expression of comraderie. He eyes Janice a moment, before turning back to Cage. "Might want to chat in private, though. S'got to /do/ with cops. Thing you helped with, back on Wednesday." GLARE. As if to remind Cage. Luke nods, still facing the coffee maker. He adds about 5 sugars and at least as many creamers before stirring the saturated solution to his satisfaction. He turns and tilts his head. "Sure man, come on back with me. What should I call you, anyway? 'Lefty' just seems disrespectful." Luke leads the way into his office, proper, waits for Murphy to gimp his way in, and closes the door behind him. "Just Murphy." That's all he replies with as he moves with his cane -- click, click, click -- past Janice, snatching the newspaper up and moving into Cage's office. One way or another, Murphy always looks like he's a couple seconds away from committing violence. Once they're in private, that look doesn't fade. But then again... "I was one of the snoops involved in finding the place you hit that night. One of the contacts I made while snoopin' just went sour," Murphy explains. And now he brings the newspaper down /again/ -- flipping it to, one of the more PROMINENT articles. Close to the front page. Mention of an explosion in a Queens tenement. Something about -- pipebombs. Five corpses. Police don't suspect terrorism, but are on high alert. "Her name's Razor. Psychopath. Involved in organized crime. Is a mutant. Is now out to kill me." Now, Murphy's reaching into his coat, fishing for his lighter. Luke holds up his hand. There's no violence in his voice, but there's no ambiguity, either. "Don't smoke in here, man. I just quit." He crosses to his desk and pulls open the middle desk drawer, from which he pulls a pack of nicotine gum and tosses it on the desk top. "Help yourself, though." He sips at his coffee and picks up the newspaper to look at it more closely. "Shit man, you /know/ this whackjob?" He shakes his head, openly sympathetic. "Ok, so you came to me. You looking for a bodyguard, or what?" The lighter pauses, hovering in front of Murphy's cigarette. He looks at the nicotine gum that Luke threw at him as if it were -- well, /poison/. The lighter makes a slow, inevitable march back to the interior of Murphy's coat -- but Murphy's clearly not /happy/ about it. The cigarette remains, perched between his lips, unlit. "I'm looking to get her /jailed/, actually. The Chelsea Ripper article. The one that's circled. Look over it? Pretty sure that's her. Fits her M.O.. If I can get some goods on her, maybe the problem'll solve itself. She's a hard case to pin down, though." "Yeah, that sounds even better. That freak should be behind bars." Luke grimaces, an ugly look in his eyes. Clearly 'being in prison' is just about the worst curse he can wish on someone. "So, I've seen the news already. You got anything extra I can start nosing around with? Drop some names? Make some friends? Nobody knows I was... in Chinatown last week, except the people who, well, yeah." The escapees, and other rescuers. Cage crosses his office and puts a hand on the little wet bar in the corner. "You want a beer or something?" "Cheapest beer you got," Murphy says. "Also, I'd keep your whereabouts that night strictly to yourself and those who already know. Just in case nobody else told you that." He pauses a moment, before pulling out a chair -- sitting himself with a dull whump. "I don't want you for snoopin', Cage. No offense, but you don't strike me as the subtle type. I want you for your nigh indestructible ass. This woman, she's. Pretty rough." When Cage brings Murphy a beer, he'll lean forward to take it. "I need you to do two things. Deliver a message to her for me, and help me frame her the fuck up. Well, technically, it won't be a frame-up. Because she's /gonna/ commit a fucking crime." *TCHT*; the beer can pops open. "Trick is, I wanna prove she did it before she even does it." Cage takes his beer and perches on the arm of the nearby couch. It groans under his deceptively heavy weight. He pops open his own beer, takes a swig, and thinks for a long moment. "Now, if the cops were running something like this, they'd get their panties in a twist about calling it entrapment." Another swig. "But you and I don't really have that problem." Cage considers further. Apparently a deep thinker, this one. Or just ponderous. "I got no problem with setting this bitch up. But the truth is, they're gonna see me coming a mile away. But maybe I can put on a funny hat and a trench coat. What's your plan? What am I supposed to tell her?" "She got involved because she wants to carve up the people who've been siccin' mutants on one another without giving her a cut. When I told her that the people involved were cops, well -- like any /reasonable/ psychopath, she realized she couldn't carve up the whole NYP-fucking-D. So she asked me for a name. Cop runnin' the show. Said she'd be satisfied just carving /him/ up. Before I could give her that name, things got..." Murphy looks to the left of the room. He hasn't taken a sip of his beer, yet. Just opened it. Maybe he likes to hold it. "...messy. Anyway, she wants me dead, but I'm pretty sure she also still wants that name." He turns to Cage, then. "So, here's how it goes." "/You/ go in there. Walk right up to her. Tell her you got a message from Murphy. That'll probably piss her right off, which is why -- you're going instead of me. She sics her goons on you, I doubt it'll take. Anyway, you're gonna feed her the name of a cop I know. One involved with the fights. And then? We're gonna anonymously tip the cops off and tell them that some crazy fucking crime-boss is gonna /kill/ that cop. When she does? Wham," Murphy says, and /now/ he takes a swig. "It'll be /her/ versus pigs. My money's on bacon." Cage listens carefully, his furrowed brow getting more furrowy as Murphy goes on. Finally, when Murphy is done, he takes a long sip of beer, and says, "There's a couple problems here." Luke has the look of someone who's planned more than a couple shenanigans in his time. "The first one, is gross, but not a show-stopper. The fact that we're saving one sick bastard from some other sick bastard? I dunno, I don't completely see the upside, aside from getting whats-her-face off /your/ ass. But whatever. The real problem is this: See, my ass ain't lucky enough for her to get killed in the arrest. She's gonna get taken in, and then she's gonna start cutting deals. /Everyone/ fucking deals, in the end. Then they're gonna wanna know, why him? Why this cop? 'Oh,' she'll say, 'That kind old Luke Cage came and gave me his name. In FACT, it was even his idea to kill the guy.' And I'm in enough fucking trouble already man. You got evidence on her? I'm more than happy to call it in, go in, and sit on her till the cops get there. But I can't just load a gun and hope it turns out all right." "Upside is a cop gets dead and a serial killer goes to jail. What, you /like/ cops?" Murphy asks, lazy-eyed and /peering/ at Cage. "Yeah, she'll probably feed them your name. And when she does, you just shrug your arms and say 'Who the fuck is this crazy bitch?'. So long as you don't say anything incriminating when you walk up to her -- just tell her that Murph wants her to know the name she wanted is, whatever," Murphy says, waving his hand, "for all they know, she's just some fucking lunatic who saw you on /TV/. They won't have shit on you unless you /give/ them shit." Then, Murphy adds with a grimace. "Ain't no evidence. She's -- teleporter. Fast as fuck. And when she teleports, she leaves behind some sort of -- clone. Husk. Lasts for about a minute before it just evaporates. Basically, when shit goes down, you've gotta deal with about six of her, each crazier than the last. And even if you kill her, s'probably not /her/, just one of her fucked up clones. You ain't gonna be able to hold her down and they ain't gonna be able to pin shit on her. Not unless we point a mother-fucking /neon sign/ at her ass and serve her up to them on a goddamn platter." Luke clenches his jaw at Murphy's jab about liking cops. He's been getting better about his temper lately, learning to live like a not-prisoner, but it's clear he feels pushed. "Look, all it takes is one damn camera at her place, and all my shit comes tumbling down. Fuckin mail her a letter man. Call her from a pay phone. If I were you, I wouldn't get anywhere near that bitch. Call it in, neat and clean. Keep your distance. Do that, and I'll even walk guard duty for you until she goes inside." He shrugs, finishes the beer and crushes the can into a truly tiny, compacted shape in his hands. "It's the best I can do. I'm hip deep in shit already." "I'd be lying if I didn't say part of the reason I came to you is outta hope she tries something stupid and you end up smashing in her skull," Murphy announces, rather -- blankly. "Don't think the cops would give you much trouble over it, though you'd have to figure out a reason you were there. Just sayin' you were investigating something. That being said. I understand why you ain't willing to take that risk. Particularly not after the cops on Wednesday. Alright, I'll handle this myself," he tells him, before -- HOIST -- shoving himself up back to his feet on his cane. "Hey," Luke says, standing up as well, holding his hands out, palms forward. "I wasn't kidding before. I'll watch your back for free, man. But there's no reason to get close to her. Seriously, just /call/ her. You don't have to go all Lone Ranger and shit." There is, perhaps, just a little /snort/ at this last bit. "Mother-fucker carved up my hand /and/ blew my apartment to kingdom come. I ain't going near her," Murphy announces. "Alright, alright. Don't get all /gushy/ on me, goddammit. I'll call you if I need a big indestructible black man to stare at my ass," Murphy announces. Like this is something he might regularly REQUIRE. Then, he's turning to give Luke a preview of what this job will entail. Click, click. Toward the exit. "Also, if cops start dropping like flies, I recommend you keep your head down. Way down. S'gonna get prickly for the public ones," he adds, opening the door. Luke actually laughs out loud, emphasis on the loud, when Murphy mentions gushy. Maybe its the tension release of a very tense moment, or maybe it was just a straight up funny mental image. Either way, he stands and walks Murphy out. "Keep in touch Murphy. Believe it or not, there are other people in this town who give a shit." He grins and leans on the doorframe while Murphy heads out.