2007-07-28: Delivery


Saint_icon.gif Liv_icon.gif

Summary: Saint gets a delivery. Or rather, a delivery girl who, as it turns out, isn't actually in the pizza business.

Date It Happened: July 28th, 2007


Penthouse Suite, New York City

Penthouse Suite.
9:47 PM
Something Else As Equally Important.

The Saint is here, going over the blueprints to his latest acquisitions prospect. He's in full on work mode, hardly paying attention to anything that's going on around him. Blueprints are scattered all over the floor and he crawls around from one to the other, highlighting things with different colored highlighters and what not.

Maps of all kinds and shapes and sizes hang from strings and clips all over the room. Pictures have been taken of the block of the museum, the museum itself and the surrounding ten blocks. Whatever he's planning, it's probably going to be pretty big and not something he can do alone.

In the background, coming from the over expensive, is some rock mixed classical song. Something the original Saint would listen to, but updated for this Saint's generation, no doubt.

The Saint has a visitor.

The penthouse being a penthouse, visitors don't usually waltz up and knock right on the door, do they? There are security measures. And yet…

*Knockknockknock.* "Delivery," a bored female voice drifts across from the other side of the door. It's faintly tinged with an accent of some kind. If the studious thief inside were to check to see who's paying him a visit, he'd see a youthful-looking brunette in an off-white men's dress shirt several sizes too large. A nametag reads 'THE KING' underneath 'Al's Pizza'. Hip cocked to one side, she's holding an insulated pizza carrier in one hand and eyeing the door impatiently.

Saint /did/ order a pizza. But he's been so hard at work, he doesn't remember if he ate it or not. Grabbing up a couple of photos on his way, he bobs and weaves through the mess and kind of backs towards the door, still looking at the pictures. "Too dark. Gotta' retake these…" and other mutterings to himself are, well, muttered as he pulls open the door. His foot stops it fro opening all the way and he leans back to peek out of the crack. He whips out a hundred dollar bill and slips it through the pizza box sized crack he's left the door open so that he can pay for his stuff.

The pizza girl's head drops to the side as she stares at the hundred dollar bill - which she then snatches and waves around in front of the crack of the door. "I don't have any change," she chirps in her Australian accent. "That's a nice little present, you're generous. Is this for last time? I did such a good job you wanna pay me extra, I bet. Are you gonna let me in or what? You don't write, you don't call…"

"I wasn't aware that I was supposed to write letters to the local pizza joint." Saint remarks, still somewhat distracted by the pictures in his hand. They finally get tossed to the side, though, where nothing else should really matter. As he's going to need two hands to collect his pizza probably. So he nudges the door open wider with his foot and reveals the entirety of himself… which doesn't look as old as his father. But there are some similarities in their features, that's for sure. If the pizza girl has an eye for that kind of thing.

The woman swings her pizza box further away from the door in a swift movement any adept waiter or pizza delivery person should be proud of. Canting her head down so that dark, loose bangs sweep over her eyes, she stares at Saint. She stares and stares and stares, as incredulous as if the young man had told her to dance the hula on the spot. "You're not Simon."

"Obviously, you're not the pizza delivery boy." With a shrug, he doesn't see to be too keen on dealing with this in a hostile way. He's got too much other stuff to do. Like rob a museum. "So if you'll just give me my money back, I'll close the door and we can pretend this little episode of Wrong House didn't happen." Saint even offers a small smile of charmingness to help assist with this whole idea of his. A smile that definitely belongs to his father.

"The King", if her nametag is to be trusted, squints at the man and purses her lips, perhaps overdramatically, sizing him up. She twirls the hundred dollar bill about in her fingers before snapping it out toward Saint. "Mmkay. You can have your ill-begotten money back." She plants a hand on her hip. Its curve, what there is of one, is largely buried under the long shirt. "Thing is, it's not the wrong house," she points out in a cavalier fashion. She may be eyeing Saint with a whole bunch o' suspicion, but she's a curious sort to begin with — there's a mystery here, and she's going to solve it. A mishcievous little smile even quirks her mouth. "So who're you, mate?"

Saint takes the hundred back and shoves it into his pocket. He's being asked questions. Which means this is probably a cop of some sort. Luckily, he's got the photography story all ready, just in case he has to spit that out. "I'm Eddie." he says, "Eddie Brock." Suddenly, the photos are held up for her to see, quickly. "I'm a photographer. Some guy let me use his place for the week, while I'm in town for a few days. Y'know how house sitting gigs are…" The lies roll off the tongue like there's nothing to it.

"Well, Eddie. I'm a friend of Simon's. Know just what he likes on his pizza. How 'bout since he's not home, I go in and leave him a message? On a post-it? Know where he is, by the way?" The woman leans to one side, trying to get a peek into the penthouse around Saint's form, then smiles sweetly at him. She goes so far as to literally bat her lashes.

This does not bode well. She's a cop, he can practically smell it. But he's also never really been able to stand his ground around those of a female persuasion. Has something to do with his previous status as a nerd or loser or all of the above. "No clue. Milan?" Just throwing a random place out there, his body backspins to allow her passage into the penthouse. "Watch your step. He left all these crazy papers down here on the floor…" He motions off towards a desk on the farthest wall. "Pen and paper's over there…"

"Mmhmmmmmmm," Liv hums, singsong, as she saunters on into the penthouse. She wanders around the papers on the floor, careful not to step on them with her scuffed skate shoes, but not exactly tiptoeing, either. She makes her way to the desk, slides the pizza box on it, and leans over it in her attempt to rummage around for a pen. "What're you takin' pictures of?" she asks conversationally, pegging Saint with an impish grin over her shoulder. "He never struck me as the type of guy to let strangers into his big fancy penthouse."

"The museum." Eddie says with a shrug. If only to keep her off his back. If she checks out the window, there's a camera with a telescopic scope on there… pointed right at the museum in the distance. "I think you're right about him, anyway. But I guess he trusts me. Said something about me having that kind of face." He shrugs, not really wanting to keep her in here long. She might something on him to incriminate him and that'll just be too much of hassle to his time frame. "So where do you know him from, anyway?"

"The one across the way? Yeah? Good view. Good security, too." Liv scrawls something on a piece of notepaper and leaves it on the desk. King wuz here. "Oh, heeere and theeere," she answers without answering. "Actually, he's my sugar daddy, matter of fact." She spins about, smiling brightly. "Just kiddin'! Honestly, me 'n' Simon go back a short ways. Mutual favours." Sort of.

"Really?" Eddie suddenly seems to have a more renewed interest in this person. Probably why the door gets nudged closed with the heel of his foot. "Huh." Making mental notes, Eddie slides over to where the book case is and starts fingering at the spines of the books. He's thinking. "Would I be prying if I asked what kind of favors are we talking about here…?"

Her answer is simple. "Yep," Liv says with a wily little smirk, a twinkle in her eye. She wanders over to the window where the camera happens to be set up and peers through the telescopic lense. "I happen to respect a healthy curiosity, though. Killed the cat but life's about the journey, hey, mate?" She spins about on her heel. "I'm his locksmith. The man gets himself into a lot of jams."

Eddie is not exactly too sure about what this girl seems to know about his father, but he's going to see if he can't get some of the information out of her. "What kind of locks?" Obviously, Mr. Brock isn't all he's cracked up to be in regards to be a photographer. Especially, if she knows the original Saint's style of working, which seems to match the way Eddie here's got the penthouse all dolled up.

Liv squints ever-so-slightly at the young man, curious little creases forming around her eyes. She starts to smirk a bit more. "Any kind," she answers. A seemingly casual stroll is adopted, taking her along the edge of the sprawl of photographs. "You make 'em I break 'em. 'Course," she grins impishly, "You don't make 'em, bein' a photographer and all."

"You're right. /I/ don't…" But then Eddie's picking up a couple of photos on his way to stand near Liv. He thrusts them out towards her, as they are pictures of the security consoles and ID slots for a couple of big doors he's going to need to get past in the museum. "But apparently, they do. Seen these before?" He might as well let her in on it if she's bold enough to tell him without knowing who he actually is.

The woman snatches the photographs, holding it by one corner as she regards it, tipping her head back. She purses her lips and clicks her tongue. "Sure," she says, casually cocky about it. She tucks the first photo behind the others, peers at the next, then the next. "I recognize this system. Fairly standard, straight-up. Good, though. 'Magine that's why it's standard." She hands one photo back. It's a bad apple. "You got a better up-close of the card reader, I can maybe tell you what you could plausibly do with information like that, but well, that's only if you're into more than takin' pretty pictures of big ol' secure doors." Liv winks.

Eddie smirks and motions for her to follow. "I've got more pictures of the locks than I know what to do with. Security's never really been my forte. Looks like I ordered the pizza right on time." He steps out of the way and waves a hand in the direction of a pile of photos that should prove to be quite good surveillance pictures of every door he's going to have to deal with. "There's a lot of issues. I've been trying to find a way around all this, but it's not looking good."

Liv follows, a literal skip to her step. She swings her arms once, back and forth, before she starts to pour over the photos. "Pfffff. That's where you're missin' it. You don't go around something like this. You go straight through. Maybe turn left a little." She should be asking more questions about why this guy is doing this planning and not the Saint she knows, and she will - but seeing all these pictures laid out is like leading a kid to candy and telling them to take whatever they want. "Too bad it's not actually pizza, huh? I could go for some." She touches a fingertip to one photo in order to move it aside and check out the one underneath. Her short nails are decorated with chipping blue paint. She rifles through the pile, absorbing it all with her eyes, which sparkle hungrily (not for pizza; for crime).

"That's where you come in, I take it?" Eddie looks over her shoulder, as if he's trying to understand what she's so hungry about, but can't really seem to keep up. He's much better at the things that don't involve this. Not that he hasn't done operations like this before… but those were always set up by his father… who probably used her. Duh, Saint. "If you help me pull this off, I'm pretty sure we could arrange a celebratory pizza." Uh oh. This just may be the part where it's time for them to get to planning.

"Celebratory? Don't know if I'd go that far, hold onto your shorts." Liv drops the picture she was eyeing closely, a much sharper version of the one she had earlier; the one of the card reader she needed. "I don't know who the hell you are, mate," she states cheerfully, "I'll give you one thing, you're off to a good start." She turns about to face him completely, crossing her arms in the floppy shirt she wears. "But you're not Simon. Did he hire you? Did he finally go senile? Need a planner?"

"He finally went dead." comes the words from Eddie's mouth. He's too busy staring at the wall when he says this, that he can't possibly be lying. "And until I can find the guys that killed him, I'm going to carry on the legacy that he trained me for." Clenching his fist for a moment, he turns back around to face the floppy-shirt wearing chick. "I'll pay you whatever he paid you."
GAME: Save complete.

Liv is struck speechless. She staggers backward — struck is a good term for it indeed, since she looks like she was physically hit. After the initial stumble, softer steps take her back until she leans against the nearest available surface, a table. As Saint stares at the wall, she stares at him in return, one side of her mouth tugged down. The sudden melancholy in her deep brown eyes gradually drains out and her look hardens.

"Well, then." Liv breaks into one of her mischievous grins, this one a bit more knowing than before. She grabs the bottom of her borrowed shirt, tugs it over her head, and throws it over her shoulder - revealing the colourful tattoos that run up and down over her athletic arms. Her true self, as it were. Not to mention the cartoon nails with arms and legs and faces on her black tee that states 'Let's Get Hammered'. "Hurry up and order that pizza, Friendly Eddie. It's time to get our crime minds on."

Saint just smiles a little bit, turning to grab the phone and starts off towards the fridge, where the pizza place's number is. "Call me Saint."

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