ArchivedLogs:Normal People

Normal People
Dramatis Personae Clint, Trick	2016-04-27 "I need your help. And booze."
Location <NYC> Clint's apartment - Hell's Kitchen
As soon as Clint rounded the corner, he he saw the lights in his windows, shining through the colorful tapestries--the blackout curtains weren't drawn. He waits until he's inside the building before deploying bow and quiver, then quietly ascending the three flights of stairs to his apartment. The smell of strong coffee and greasy pizza wafts down the hall. Clint dials up and draws an arrow with metal prongs protruding from its cylindrical head. His door is unlocked, and he crouches down low to push it open, aiming his shot into the apartment. Though small, this studio has tall, stately windows that let out onto a fire escape with a commanding view of the streets below. The entryway is flanked with a closet on one side and a bathroom on the other, and is the only uncluttered space in the whole apartment. Brightly colored banners adorn the walls and all manner of puppets and stuffed animals line the shelves such that the entire place looks like a carnival in miniature. The floors are covered with busy central asian carpets and littered with plush cushions, except in the kitchenette, where the narrow counters are crowded with jars upon jars of custom seasoning blends and locally roasted coffees, all with ridiculous names. A tight spiral of floating stairs leads up to a loft half taken up by a big, fluffy bed and an armoire, the remainder of the space there given over to an L-shaped workbench below a pegboard laden with tools. A scruffy brown mutt pads into view and wags his tail languidly while licking his chops. A tall, solidly built man in a sharp navy suit pokes his head out from the kitchenette a moment later. His brown hair is tidy, his blue paisley tie impeccably knotted, and he holds a pot of coffee in one manicured hand. "Your locks are shitty, and so's your watchdog," he says, turning back whence he came. "Arrow isn't a watchdog." Clint sighs and straightens up, putting away his weapons and going to pet the dog. "Besides, you brought pizza. And before you start talking again, I can't hear you." The intruder looks over his shoulder from where he had been digging in the cabinet. "Batteries dead?" "Hearing aids don't help anymore." Clint shoots back curtly. He gives Arrow's floppy ears a vigoruous scruffing, then stands up again. "What are you doing here, Trick?" "Can't a man visit his own brother?" Trick shoots back, all mock indignity. He turns back toward the counter and pulls an ancient Les Miserables mug from the drying rack. "This is not visiting, it's breaking and entering." Clint looks up and watches his brother fill the mug with steaming coffee. "Can't you text or email like a normal person?" Trick turns around and holds out the mug. "We are not /normal people,/ and you," he says, grinning, "are only mad because you were hoping for someone else." "Yeah, maybe someone who would have put up a fight." Clint accepts the coffee, mirroring his brother's grin. Trick just waggles his eyebrows. "I'll bet." Clint rolls his eyes and takes a careful sip of his coffee. His sigh of satisfaction sounds almost involuntary. "On the other hand, you're a coffee sorcerer, so I guess I won't kick you out /just/ yet." He sits backwards in a chair at what passes for his dining table--really just a sturdy card table--and peers under the lid of the almost comically immense pizza box before pulling out a slice of pepperoni and cheese. "But seriously, why /are/ you here?" Trick sighs and picks up his own coffee--this mug imprinted with the silhouettes of Glinda and Elphaba. "Alright, I'll fess up. I need your help. And booze." "You could have gotten booze down at the corner store," Clint offers helpfully, "or any number of bars in the area. Left of fridge, eye level, skinny cabinet." Trick opens the cabinet and starts poking through Clint's impressive liquor stocks. "You're low on Jack," he turns around to inform him, wagging the near-empty bottle. "And since when do you drink vodka? I thought you hated the stuff." With his mouth full of pizza, Clint makes no answer except to shrug. "I need your secret agent connections." Trick finally comes out with what he was looking for: Jameson's. "Though frankly I have no idea if they'd be the right sort of connections." He tops his coffee off with the whiskey and offers the bottle to Clint with upraised brows. Clint shakes his head and washes down his pizza with undoctored coffee. "Is this supposed to be subtle jabbing? It's not very subtle." "No, it wasn't, I'm just..." Trick shakes his head and takes a big gulp of his Irish coffee. "Let's not go there. I didn't come to revive old fights." "Revive?" Clint echoes. "Seems to me that one's still pretty lively. But yeah, you need my help with...?" Trick hesitates for a moment. "My client." "I'm sure you have lots of clients." "Oh, come /on/." Trick doesn't sound particularly put out (or surprised). " Are you going to act like you don't use your TLA's Big Brother tech to stalk my cases?" "I don't /stalk/," Clint objects, "I /monitor./" "You're a goddamn /spy/, its a little late to start mincing words." Trick paces the narrow space of the kitchenette, but stops and faces his brother again before continuing, "You know how I feel about your line of work, but a man's /life/ is at stake here." Clint does not speak at once. He hands the remainder of his pizza, cropped down to the crust, to an eagerly waiting Arrow. Then drains his coffee and holds out the mug for more. "So," he says evenly, "Jackson Holland, then."