2010-07-26: ECA Partay



Date: July 26, 2010


There's a party in the city! Some people go to unwind, some go to score some dope, and some people just live there!

"ECA Partay"

Eastern Centennial Apartments - Lower East Side

Time veers straight past midnight and rolls up the other side of the clock— and in Loisaida, the party's just getting started. Down on the street an argument's breaking out at one set of the lobby doors of the ECA building, lots of cocked-head shouting and shoving over someone who was supposed to show, but never did. Things are much more peaceful up three and four floors down from the top of the building, high enough to be inconvenient as fuck without getting near enough to the top for a good view. The cheap rooms. Windows are open, and in at least one or two windows lights are flashing and music's pounding loud enough to be heard from the street. Up on the edge of the roof a woman's screaming like a banshee and flashing her tits to the city. Good evening, New York.

Enter the white boy. The stuck-up, suit-wearing, ridiculously white, English boy. It's a hot New York night, but here he is strolling through the streets in a suit, sans tie. Lucky he hasn't been mugged for his shoes, one might even be lead to think! Regardless, Adam Monroe isn't afraid. Not of these thugs and muggers and druggies and drunkards. Not of the cops. Not of the gangsters. Only one person. That's only because she seems to be knowledgeable about one particularly harmful secret. So here he is strolling the slums looking for potential 'recruits,' the sort of low-level button men that'll do what you ask (and take the fall) for the promise of some drugs or some cash.

It's not often that Stefano and his guys bother with this type of scene. Rowdy and noisy, sure, but ultimately small-time; they usually go more for volume. But the boys are taking some personal time tonight, Belinda's working late again, leaving Stef with some time to kill. Hey, you never know where you might spot something you missed. Leaning across the edge of a second-story balcony, he's engaged in a friendly shouting match with a couple of co-eds with too much metal shit in their faces, too much horse in their veins, and too much clothing— from the waist down; up top, they're taking full advantage of what summer heat still lingers from daytime.

"Look out, I think your pimp just showed up!" he calls down to them, spotting the blond guy from the poker game as he wanders by.

Izzy crawls out of his apartment, done up for the party, lipstick more than a little smudged, though he shoves up a finger next to his mouth to rub the extraneous red into a rosy blur that still doesn't help him stop looking like someone was just sucking on his face. A cute black girlie tee encrusted with rhinestones reading 'I'm Evil' across the chest is dressed up with a miniskirt and a pair of lacy, see-through anklesocks. The stilettos are left in his apartment and he closes the window most of the way in order to discourage too many more people from coming in and stealing his stuff. Not that he has that much stuff. But the point remains. A small group's made its way inside and is listening to the music from the next apartment over rattling through the walls and into their guts, smoking up and making out on his futon, on the floor, against his wall, on his stove. Izzy himself grabs up a smoke (just tobacco) and a light and crawls out onto the fire escape for some 'fresh' air, draping over the railing and looking down at the new arrivals, lighting up and then lifting his arm in the air and over the edge to flick a few orange-glowing sparks downward. He smiles peaceably as he watches the antics down below.

In order to keep your underlings rolling in the stuff, you occasionally have to roll out yourself and grab some product. That usually involves you rolling some product for yourself too, just to make sure it's as good as it's rumored to be. This building is no stronghold. Thank you New York City, or more specifically, the building super - the door locks down on the street don't even work, which is good as the buzzer system doesn't seem to have worked in a number of years.

Muscling through a group of latino thugs out on the stoop - complete with muscle shirts, gang tattoos, and smoking cigarettes - Adam heads through the hall, past the mailboxes overflowing with final and past-due notices and the elevator that doesn't work toward the steps. One or two doors are splintered around the handles (nobody wants to live on the first floor) and the ones that aren't have a half dozen locks showing. He's got to get three flights up to check in with one particular 'distributor.'

One of the girls down by the sidewalk gives Stefano the finger, then turns and wades back into the crowd, not bothering to see who he might be referring to. The other one makes a point of looking around, suddenly nervous, before following suit. Whoops, looks like somebody figured out a way to pay for their habit.

No response from the guy, either. Fine, maybe he's on the clock… just hope that fancy-ass suit doesn't get him mugged for his trouble. With the party in apartment 204 winding down - only the hostess and a couple poolboy types going at it on the couch, a few more people crashing on floor space - Stef decides it's as good a time as any to head downstairs and circulate some more.

Belinda was supposed to work late, but things fell through and her schedule cleared, ending her shift early. When Stefano had mentioned the party, she didn't think anything of it, until she found the neighborhood. She parks her car in a nearby pay lot and takes a breath, pulling out her cell. She dials Stefano, just to double-check. It wouldn't be a good idea to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Izzy tips his head back and gives a sharp laugh as Stefano sets the girls scampering. Dressed no better, of course, he tucks his cig into the side of his mouth and holds it there admirably as he makes his way downstairs, slamming his window the rest of the way shut on the way down. He taps on a friend's window down on third and soon's slipping inside, coming out of the apartment on the other side with a plastic cup of the sort littering the corridors. Cruising down toward the elevators, he shoves at a guy getting a little handsy, splashing him with the newly poured liquor on his way to the main stairs, keeping an eye out for the suited one he'd seen from above.

Those steps are damn narrow, and more than a little dark. Someone certainly doesn't care much for the safety of their tenants, with just about every other naked light bulb either flickers, or is out entirely. They're steep too - step up a half dozen, narrow landing, turn, up another half dozen, repeat ad nauseam). Maybe that's why Adam doesn't seem to notice the body coming down the steps, dressed though he (?) may be. There's a near chest-to-thigh collision, but peripherals kick in at just the right moment to avoid a bump…and create just an awkward little hangup there on the steps. "Well…hello there. I don't suppose you know where someone called Angel is living presently? With this party, it's getting rather hard to knock and have someone answer, you see…"

Izzy is, for his part, beginning to regret having left his shoes upstairs, puddles of spilled drink and other things he doesn't particularly want to consider soaking his socks as he picks his way down, distracting him long enough for the near-collision to be as much a surprise to him as to the other. Pushing up onto his toes as if by reflex, he reaches in front of him and pulls the skirt down from where it hitched up, less self-conscious than practical. "Ah, yah. You're Munroe, eh?" he asks the guy. "C'mon," he tells him, easing back and passing off the drink, turning on damp toes to lead the way.

Out on the street, meanwhile, the crowd is as lively as ever. That's the trouble with phoning in a party in a neighborhood like this— one too many people notice they could be having a better time outside, then all of a sudden the rest start playing follow-the-leader. Some other places are doing better for themselves: lots of bodies, lots of thumping music, lots of back rooms to go do private things in.

Just as Stefano spots one that looks to suit his taste, that's when his phone goes off. Ducking off to one side, he takes it out and peers at the screen, then punches a couple buttons in rapid succession. "Bell?" he answers. "Thought you were gonna be tied up till sunrise."

Belinda nods and keeps looking around. She's seen enough trauma cases to know what happens in this kind of place.. "Yeeahh. My schedule cleared." She sounds a bit nervous. "I'm in a parking lot near that place you were telling me about. Did you give me the right address? This doesn't look like the kind of area we should really be hanging around in." Call it snobbery, call it survival, call it what you will. "I think I'm just gonna head home."

"Monroe, in fact. But yes. You've got the idea. Sounds like he's been running on at the mouth a little more than he should be, given the nature of his present employment, but who am I to say." The drink is taken from Izzy only long enough to set it down on a step, next to the wall. "Thanks, but I carry my own." Adam's suit jacket is opened enough to slide the top of a silver flask from the interior pocket…and to show the rather large-caliber handgun in the shoulder harness as well. Go ahead and call him a size queen - he doesn't mind! Dress shoes tap on the carpet-less steps as he follows behind the guy (?)…on the Yellow Brick Road to drugs.

Izzy gets back into a corridor and reaches back with a hand to draw Monroe's hand over him, if the guy will let him, pulling him closer as the floor beneath begins to vibrate more violently with the music that makes it harder to converse at a longer distance from one another. Eyes rise from the floor to the guy on the phone as he draws the suited man along behind him toward the room Stefano had just been eying. "He gave me something for you." Innocuous little statement, that.

Well, dammit, maybe Stefano won't be getting his fingers deeper into this particular bit of turf after all. Still, there's plenty more of the city to go around. For now, his other family needs some attending to.

"Well, good," he answers, bringing the phone closer— speakerphone doesn't work so well at times like this. "Yeah, probably, I think I see you now. I didn't think you were gonna actually come down!" Unless there was an emergency, like say him getting hurt. Again.

Belinda blinks.. "This *is* the right place?" A sigh. "Yeah.. I'm going to bow out. Just… be careful and get home safe. Something doesn't feel right." A start of the engine. "I'll see you at home."

Whoa. Whoa. Hold the phone. Red alert. Man the battle stations. Action stations. Set Condition One. Whatever alarm bells Adam has going off in his head, Izzy can't hear. If he can read faces though, he'd see Adam's turn in all sorts of crazy looks…confusion, anger, stuff like that. "Well…ah…while I can appreciate your enthusiasm, I'm afraid to say, I'm interested solely in the…." Well, he was going to say fairer gender, but Izzy sort of treads the line between them. "I rather enjoy the company of women," Adam says with a nod, pulling his hand back. "But it seems odd that Angel would leave something with anyone." His eyes narrow at Izzy. "What did he give you?"

Izzy isn't facing Adam, either, so any cues in facial expressions are lost to the crowd. At the pulling-back, though, he turns, and eyes the guy, brows lowering. "Uh-huh," is retorted dully. "The fuck should I know," he answers back. "Fewer questions I ask, fewer problems I have."

"Alright…whatever. Just…take me. I need to see the stuff. There's quite a few buyers I'm trying to bring on board, and I need some product to show." To prove, in fact. Purity and potency, as it were. "Is this the place?" Adam asks, nodding his head to the side at whatever door they've stopped in front of in this narrow little hallway.

Izzy is more than a little drunk, at this point, and mildly toasty, to boot. But for all that, he keeps his head with remarkable precision. reaching about to a back pocket from which he was planning to have Adam discreetly extract the little envelope, instead just handing it to him. "This one's for you. There's a phone number inside you can ring up if you like it, tell his guys where you want the delivery." Message dutifully if flatly delivered, Izzy slides back into the party.

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