2007-05-26: Fatale Attraction


Archer_icon.gif Trina_icon.gif

Summary: Archer tries to help the target in his latest case, whether she wants his help or not.

Date It Happened: May 26th, 2007

Fatale Attraction

Della Rosa

It's actually a busy night at Della Rosa, and Trina's had her hands full. Apparently, some of the local working stiffs are throwing an impromptu going away party for one of their own as he prepares to move off with his wife to the fine state of Oklahoma — home of waving wheat and other such things about which one can wax poetic for entire songs. A night that should be lucky to have a dozen people has suddenly risen like a flash flood, with with the joint packed to about seventy-five percent capacity. In the air… country music plays, much to the bartender's chagrin.

Despite this penalty against her sanity and good mood, Trina knows how to play to the crowd, putting on her best electric grin when moving to the tables to deliver new pitchers of beer. She sways her hips, black box-pleated skirt brushing against her black, footless leggings clad thighs. Her feet, dressed in a casual pair of black lace-patterned flats with a broad red belt and buckle style adornment on the toe, are killing her, but that never makes it to her face. Instead, that smile just continues to glow as she races between the bar and the kitchen, trying to get everything where it's supposed to be with the waitress gone for the night.

Wrong Club.

At least, that's how Archer feels when he waltzes back into the Della Rosa. His eyes are showing weeks of confusion, whilst his nose is wrinkled up in 'ew' style, based on what he's seeing and hearing. Not wanting to walk too deep into this haven of Country Music, Archer makes a quick line for the bar. Claiming a stool ever so fast, he doesn't reach for a stack of money this time. In fact, he just seems to fold his hands and wait… patiently.. for Trina to get back from doing whatever it is she's doing out there with the drunk white folks. It could be considered a light form of stalking, actually, the way he's staring at her, watching her go back and forth like she knows what she's doing. Hopefully, she does.

As Trina sees the familiar, well-cut face of Archer — a face that is even harder to miss in the Caucasian sea, she makes her way towards it. There's a broad smile as she makes her way towards him, glad to have a reprieve from the drunken business men who play too much music that reminds her of home. Everyone gawks sometimes, so maybe this will just mean another good tip.

When she leans forward, the spaghetti straps of her cherry red tank top with its matching red, lacy inset nestles into the crooks of her shoulders as she plants her elbows on the bar. "Howdy, stranger," she greets good-naturedly and miraculously without any hint of a Southern accent. Her long, nearly black hair spills forward as she makes contact with the bar, framing Trina's friendly greeting in a softly waving frame. "I know you ain't drinkin' Hennessy, so what can I do you for this evening?"

Archer doesn't particularly seem to be too worried about what's going on in the party. He's focused on Trina, more or less. He takes his time with the getting comfortable on the stool. Even to the point that he's choosing his words carefully in his mind. Which may or may not be a good thing. It takes him a moment to come up with a way to bring this up without really causing alarm in whomever's sitting around him. "You can take a break." He doesn't know if she has any relief or whatever, but this is quite dire and so he's not going to be too worried about that. "We need to talk." There's just a bit of seriousness in both his tone and his expression, to show that he's not about to just hit on her. Not -really-, anyway.

Trina's head rears back as she stands up properly, confusion readily apparent in her eyes. She said she wasn't a snitch, so she doesn't really find his notion of 'pressing concern' really so pressing. "Do we? Because I seem to think that I've got a huge party sitting in the middle of the bar that needs my attention." Her slender arms then cross over her breasts, and her scultped eyebrows arch expectantly. When she defiantly tilts her head to the side, one of her large golden hoop earrings falls against her cheek. Your move, buddy.

"Fair enough. If you want everybody in your party to know you killed a guy, that's fine by me." Archer doesn't talk with the loudness, nor does he even try to make it so everyone can hear. Just his normal tone. He finally goes into his pocket to come out with some cash and drops a five on the table. "Oh and a bottle of water would be pretty sweet, too." He doesn't smile or anything, because he's not happy about what he's doing, but he's here to do a job and that's the most important thing. Not to mention he's driving.

Well, that's one way to get a girl's attention. Trina's arched eyebrows and frown falter, and then there's a tell-tale, sharp sniff. "I don't know what you're talking about," she finally manages, reaching under the bar to grab a chilled bottle of water that she ends up tossing in Archer's direction. Talk about a way to go from flirty to cold in 1.2 seconds. She's not getting any closer to the bar, so you better look sharp, dude. "So you can take your water and get out of here." And with that, she turns to draw another pitcher of beer. Anything to not look at the detective anymore. And hopefully he doesn't see her hand ever-so-slightly shaking as it holds that pitcher.

The bottle lands in front of him and Archer just looks at it. Getting up from the stool he shakes his head and tosses another fiver on the bar next to it. "Talk about service without a smile, huh, Frank?" Archer's only been here a couple of times, but he already considers himself to be enough of a regular to talk to Frank the Drunk. Whom never seems to leave his stool. "Look, if I came here to rat you out, I woulda' came with the NYPD. I came to see if I could help." With a shrug, he turns away from the bar and looks out at the party of lameness that's going on. "I'll be outside for about five minutes. Then I gotta' do what I gotta' do." And with that, he's heading for the door to get the heck out of here. Without his water.

For a while, Trina considers just letting him go. But then she gets to thinking. It never goes well when Trina starts to thinking. First, she imagines that he's just going to go off and disappear into the night. And then… then she remembers his mention of the police. Quietly, she folds her apron and slips it under the counter, pokes her head into the kitchen to call a fifteen, and then delivers the pitcher on her way out the door with the bottle of water.

Once she's made her way outside, Trina is looking less than amused. The bottle is thus thrust directly towards Archer's chest. She'll get him in the solar plexus with it if she can. "I don't know what you're talking about," she starts in a harsh whisper, afraid to be heard, "but I don't need you bringin' any trouble over here. I ain't got long left at this joint, and the folks here have been nothin' but kind."

"Which is why we're outside." Archer takes the water and twists the cap off. There's some time that he takes to guzzle it and then he relaxes a bit more. "God, I love this stuff. Good for you, too." As he twists the top back on, he finds himself leaning back against the wall of the building and looking over at Trina. He looks tired. Worn out. Like he should've slept days ago. But he can't because he's working cases and providing protection for girls he doesn't even know.

"So here's what I need to know from you. I need to know what happened. The truth. If I'm gonna' get you off, you gotta' give me everything." He's grasping at detective straws here, to see if he can get some information out of her.

"And what? You make me earn back what I owe you?" Trina's head shakes nearly imperceptibly. No one gives something without asking for anything in return. No one. No exceptions. Finally, her shoulders slump. "Look. If this is about the fifty, you picked a good night. I got a good tip coming. Come back after closing hours, and I'll get you the fifty back with interest. What do you want? Twenty? Thirty percent? Honest, I just don't want any trouble. I had a scuff in the bar a couple of nights ago, but I swear, if this about Elliott, he walked out of here Friday night with nothin' hurt but his pride." There. Maybe that'll throw Archer off the trail. "I'm sorry if that ain't what you wanna hear, but it's the truth."

"Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a jerk. Have no idea where people get that idea, but I guess it comes with the territory." Archer shrugs and just holds his hands up, waving the water around and what not. "Look, like I said, I just don't wanna' make the mistake of putting the wrong person behind bars. Again." With a shrug of his shoulders, he's digging into his pocket to get out his keys. "If you don't want my help, that's fine. I can't make you trust me. Hell, I don't even trust me. But you /can/ trust that they're paying me to find you. And I don't think they have a 'family reunion' in mind for when they catch up to you." Already, he's moving off towards the street so that he can get into his car and get the heck out of here.

Well, if Archer was looking for a way to get her very concerned, he's found it. Trina's brow creases. That sounds… very ominous. There's another sniff, another head tilt, and another tight crossing of her arms. She lets him take a few steps before she finally leans forward and calls out to him. "Who's paying you?"

"Can't say. Confidence and conflict of interest and all that." Archer pauses and whips back around, cross his arms over his chest to wait. "But if you want a chance to tell your side of what happened, now's it. Once I drive off, you're just another paycheck for me." Why is he being so nice with this? He could definitely just turn her in and get the dough. But maybe he's worried about her. Or he has some sort of crazy visual of his daughter in this same situation…

Trina is entirely unaware of the look of panic that quietly paints itself on her features. She… she can't trust him. He could be bluffing, but she can't tell one way or the other. She stands there, looking like she's just about ready to cry, before she finally turns on her heels toward the front door to go back to that party inside. Surely someone's gotta be ready for a refill. "I hope that paycheck spends well," she finally manages, but the words are quiet in order to prevent their strangled nature from becoming too readily heard. "I gotta get back to mine." Over her shoulder, she throws up a single, firm wave of her hand without ever really turning around. Her stomach is churning violently, but she has to wait to get inside to a bathroom to puke. Wait to get inside… "Enjoy the water."

Archer watches her for a bit and shakes his head. Soon enough he's climbing into his classic ride and slamming the door closed. Leaning back, he watches her head back into the bar and hits the glove compartment. It opens up and out comes his carry-on-drinkage. He pops the top and goes to town on it, before stashing it back into glove box. "If I get myself killed for this dame, I'm gonna' be so pissed off." is muttered before he turns the car on and squeals tires to pull off into a crazy u-turn that cuts off another car and causes the shouting of obscenities.

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