2010-08-03: Pop Goes The Weasel




Wilbur "The Weasel" Creevey

Date: August 3rd, 2010


Off of Stanford's intel, Maggie tracks down a member of the Irish gang who she hopes has something than can lead them to the base of operations. He finds … other topics more interesting.

"Pop Goes the Weasel"

Used Car Lot

Having legal credentials doesn't mean that the "USED CARS HERE!" lot has to look any less sleazy than the stereotype of its kind. Spreading out old dusty vehicle one after another, the landscape gives off the air of a graveyard more than that a lot of business is moving in and out. Most people are just not even going to give this place a second glance, if they ever gave it a first.

So today must be its lucky day. There's a car parked in its narrow visitors' spaces, idling for a while with a rumble that blends with the atmosphere of the mechanic's shop connected off the main offices. But only the atmosphere, as it turns out. Tumbleweed would make the place more lively. Inside the averagely built garage doors, no sounds of progress.

Then the strains of a radio from the office as the visitor approaches; the space is cramped, cut off on all sides by cubicles, a waiting room. The radio isn't in sight, nor anyone else. But, soon, one can be heard. A stuttering stump-thud of a distorted footstep. Then another.

"… sure, sure. Jus' make the one wit' the gimp leg do it. Biiiig, tough guys…" there's a strange sort of tremble to his voice, but as the man limps into sight from behind a corridor wall, it could be fairly easily attributed to the awkward way he has to favor his badly wrapped knee, even his hand clenching tightly against his thigh. It has to be hurting; and he appears absolutely terrible at handling it, making all of his movements doubly ungainly. And that Wilbur Creevey is just a narrow-boned Weasel of a man…

"Heeey, Wilbur," casually greets the voice of an old friend; by inflection only. The woman's voice belongs to no friend of the weasel-faced gangster, but she is smiling. Maggie is already walking toward him, through the cramped space of the waiting room as the man comes into her sights.

The shield hooked to her belt marks her as a detective with the NYPD, not, in fact, a fed. But why fiddle over details when she has one hand leaning readily atop the gun holstered at her side? The other arms hangs quite casually — Detective Powers doesn't appear especially concerned aver her unannounced waltz into this lovely establishment. "You look like you're having a rough day. Why don't you tell me about it." The darker, intense glare that sets on the man, at odds with her smile, doesn't speak of Wilbur Creevey's day getting better.

"Jesus Christ— !" Wound tighter than his clumsy pace would suggest, Wilbur positively jolts at the sound of Maggie's voice. A swinging, failing attempt to spin around to face her nearly has his entire leg giving out. The hand there tightens — around more than his leg.

"Lady…" is offered a bit more friendly-like than his original exclamation and he gives a few shifty glances for the unseen parts of the room, back and forth. "Sure, yeh. How 'bout we jus' go outside, find what ye nee…. eee… dd." The Irish Weasel saw her once, in a shadowy warehouse lit purely by inconsistent flash-lights, yet his narrowed eyes and thin eyebrows diving seem to hint that he's coming now to the right conclusion.

In any case, her shiny little badge is a difficult miss and though the false pleasantries barely fade in his teeth-barred salesman of a smile, his fingers retreat away from his leg as though he's been bitten. He soothes the palm against the front of his worn tan shirt. "Well, ain't this jus' the thing."

Maggie stops only to wait out the man's flailing to get his bearings and for recognition to kick in. Yes, yes, she's not dead. On with the show. "I know who you are," she states bluntly, "who you run with, and that this place you've got here has seen a lot of the same vehicles with a lot of different license plates coming and going. Now I'm pretty sure there's something illegal going on there… correct me if I'm wrong…"

Or not; Maggie advances on the man. Her steps are slow and easy, though it can't be denied that there's a looming quality to the way she approaches, staring steadily at him. "…and thanks to our… mutual friend, I can outrun you. You and I are going to have a chat."

For every slow step of hers, Wilbur stumbles three more of his own backwards, making similar pace with his deformed gait as she does with her steadily timed one. His dismay is palpable, but it falls suddenly flat in the wake of an angry that seeks out every pale vein in his baldly forehead. He begins to spit a little between his teeth, knowing better, but unable to fully hold back the trumpeting, "K-Knew it — I knew it."

His chin raised, he's pitching his voice slightly louder than necessary, as if to the whole room, though he seems unsure as to direction, while keeping a sharp gaze on Maggie. "Dirty lil' fuckin' dogshit rat this whooooolllle time," gossiped the pot about the kettle, "Salvatore get wise to that? — No wonder 'e was beggin' for scraps when we's found 'im." A gleam in his eye and his tone tightens up, "That's riiight. Beggin'." But his gesture to her is subservient, placating, "Not like you, no. You was jus' a vision of righteousness, miss darlin' police lady."

The darlin' police lady keeps a steady, hard-to-read stare on the man, the placations only narrowing it. "Don't know what you're talking about." Her steadily hardening features flash with a quick smile, more innocent than the truth. "But you seem pretty willing to talk about the state of affairs, Creevey," it's her turn to be placating, but there's an edge to her version, a warning against this going the wrong way, ever watchful on the weasel. "I get it. Have people not been taking you seriously? It's getting rough being under Harlin. You're seeing the truth and no one listens?"

"Yyyeah, riiiight." Creevey's bony finger lingers against his nose at Maggie's initial denials, but as she makes good on her plans to chat, he hardens rather than warms to the idea. "I ain't said nothin' 'bout nobody," he warns, "Traitors what get their due." Again, he straightens to the room, "Like our friiiiend." But it seems to almost hurt him, calling the fed-lover that, and his teeth rattle together and he swallows a heave of spit rather than introduce it in front of the lady. Carefully, slowly, he begins to wiggle forward, a despicable sort of lean in and there's a gesture that Maggie should get closer to his face.

Maggie just barely lifts one skeptical eyebrow, a flicker of a smirk and a short sigh covering all else. She leans ahead ever-so-slightly — certainly not close enough for Creevey to whisper a thing — instead glancing this way and that as if considering. With a casual look of conceding, she does just as he indicates with that little gesture of his — but probably not how he intended. One hand, opposite the detective's armed side, reaches for the man's shoulder to shove him the short distance to the wall and keep him there. She comes up parallel. "I have a car out front," she says, all low, smooth confident tones told to the wall, "waiting to go down to the station. So. That's somewhere real private we can talk."

Wilbur hits against the wall with a grunt and flash of anger that he smoothly lets chill versus her confidence, and clear dominance. He's twitchy at the mention of the station — then again, when isn't he — but also a measure of relief, the two conflicting notions making him look almost queasy. "Get me outta here," he mutters now that they're close, scrambling breaths hitting her face, "Dey're gonna freakin' kill me soon's you look away."

Come on, then! Maggie is happy to oblige. She lets go of Creevey for barely an instant, the grip against his shoulder replaced by one above his elbow. This is just used to drive him forward off the wall; she switches sides to march him out, but the hold is just the same when it's switched to his opposite arm. Firm.

"I can also get a search warrant and tear through here for evidence to track one of your scam licenses back to wherever Harlin is hiding out," she tells him, keeping her voice low. Threats, maybe, but spoken simply as coolly informative news. "My colleagues would probably like to make a real show of it, too, so everyone knows for sure the place has been made." She urges him the way she came, through the stuffy, confined space, her speed far short of brisk, but maybe just a touch too fast for the limping gangster to keep up with comfortably. "Or — you can just tell me while you sit nice and safe at the station while everything else blows up. I can tell you like that one better."

Th-th-th-th — the stumpy attempted steps of Weasel are about as pathetic as he can make them, leaning almost entirely on Maggie's firm grip like the lifeline she is. "Harlin, you keep sayin' dis name Harlin. I dun know it," the insistence is just as depressing in its snake's honesty. Sincere, high, desperate to please, even when refusing. "But I ken give ya others, sure, sure. Bets I know who's here right now— Tommy. Tommy the Mick." He stops concentrating on walking some to twist and point accusingly at some distant cubicle, his own stumbling possibly getting underfoot of Maggie's own strides, "Stupid motherfu — a dog. Stupid attack dog, jus' like the rest of 'em."

Maggie glances in the indicated direction of the faraway cubicle, brows pulling in slightly as her guard goes up more visibly. She jostles the man-in-tow to pick up the pace, aiming for that door that provides a glimpse into the dusty car lot. It's pulled open with one strong heave and the Detective catches it with her back, maneuvering Creevey out into the hot August air that greets them, thick with exhaust fumes and rubber. "Harlin— Roberto." she clarifies firmly, pausing outside to scan the lot for life. "You know him. He's a psychopath. He makes an impression. Plus, he's your boss."

It's as quiet as it ever was outside, with only those rows of too-long parked vehicles as witness to Wilbur as he takes steps outside. There's a light test against Maggie's grip, him swaying to the side as though he can't possibly keep on that leg any longer. Neighbor to it is a grab to his thigh for support as he groans a bit in theatrical weakness. "Ohh, ohh, big strong cop lady, forgive me. Is jus' a tad hard to think on this bad leg and when there's — people tryin' to kill ye inside."

"Detective Powers," she clarifies as an off-handed addendum to the man's complaining. That hand stays quite firm on him, she glances back at the building thoughtfully. It's a small break, but it's all Creevey is getting. "You'll get a seat in a second. It's even pretty comfortable back there. I hear," she reminds him before the march picks back up toward the waiting dark blue car — more gleaming by far than most of the other vehicles in the sad lot. The door to that, too, is opened for him — he should feel special! He's relinquished of her grip, finally, and she steps back, ready to close the door on him. "Let's go."


New York Police Department — Precinct

Phones. Suspects. Paperwork. The police office is far more bustling than the one they just left in a ride consisting of constant vague protesting from the passenger. Could the officers' seat be moved forward, his leg just hurts so much see, maybe they could turn on the AC — don't they know he almost died back there? But now, escorted like the special person he is into the halls of the men and women in blue, Wilbur Creevey is growing quiet, keeping his head down. It's nearly foreshadowing to the sudden eruption of movement from another side of the bullpen, launching several officers from their chairs to address their buzzing walkies. Fire at Vine and… the call's also going out simultaneously to whatever cars are lucky enough to be in the neighborhood. "… huge fire," one tells another, glad to be inside but shamed to be missing the spectacle, "Some car dealership just exploded…"

Detective Powers — and a rookie who's been following her around part of the day throughout the confusion of trying piece together the detective's trains of logic from point A to point B — are just getting Creevey squared away in an interrogation room when the activity catches Maggie's attention. She doesn't get all of it, from here, but her head turns fast to watch an officer headed in the opposite direction in the corridor, his radio crackling with activity. The door to the room is still open, quieted gangster in it, and she's meant to be following right now — but instead she closes the door on the guy, in perhaps not her most polite moment.

"Was that— " Maggie's jaw clamps down, her mouth forming into a thin, unpleased line, looking a great deal like she's going to swear. While nothing that impolite crosses her lips, she does clench her fists. "Someone must have overheard." She stares down the hall thoughtfully in the middle of her frustration. "That was fast— " A few steps are taken toward the bullpen, but she turns and puts a hand on the rookie's shoulder, urging him that way instead. "I want you to go look into what happened for me. Go see if you can get a ride in with one of the officers heading to the scene."

"But— I— was supposed to be able to watch the— "


As the young man jogs to catch up, Maggie heads back to Creevey. The door warns him of her entrance with a dull buzz as it's opened. Once closed behind her, she stands in front of it quietly with folded arms.

Assuaging his poor dear constant pain, her suspect has found himself the chair, and furthermore slid the injured leg atop of the one Maggie would otherwise occupy. Perhaps mulling over how much he likes being here now that he's here, he nervously plants palms on the table top — sweaty, greasy palms — and regards the detective with a taste of indecisive slyness. "Animals," he declares after a moment, sniffing righteously, "All of 'em."

The detective stands unmoving at first, only watching Creevey with more pensive consideration than his general character and demeanour typically deserves. Her arms fall to her sides, finally, and she slowly moves to the chair across from him; she doesn't seem to take any offense to his commandeering of the seat, only curling her hands over the top of it without so much as a glance down. All her focus is on the suspect. "Those animals are your allies. Or were."

"Or weeeere," he sneers in echo, fingers scrapping against the metal of the table as those veins pop again. Prone to anger, but too small to display it, Wilbur just shifts unhappily in the seat, the foot of his propped leg twitching slightly. "Turns out, we got ourselves a'buncha bastards and traitors." Sniff, sniff. Not him, no. He's respectable. "So good riddance to the fuckas," a stray glance to her from where he's been eying the table distantly, "Cleanin' house a bit. Lass knows about cleanin', don't she."

Detective Powers blinks slowly, seeming unaffected, unmoving while Creevey suspect moves about. "They'll get their due. Meanwhile, you're getting a … fairly … good deal, being safe in here, while out there, the dealership we left is probably burning to the ground without you in it. Why don't you tell me about where your boss likes to hide out," she suggests, nice and slow.

"Yeah," he snaps off with the hint of a smirk, "Sorry 'bout all that evidence an' all." Being good and safe in here has done wonders, meanwhile, for Wilbur's constitution. Besides the anxiety of being surrounded on all sides by the law, he's developed a kind of stiff lower lip comparatively. "Now you go on tell me how tha'd make me any dif'rent than the scum what burned my fine establishment down."

"Well… for one… they burned your place down," Maggie aims for the most straightforward and logical route, here. She lets go of the chair, only to take a casual step back and tip her head to one side; a sort of shrug. "I didn't really need that evidence— " she says and, for what it's worth to the sleazy Irishman in front of her, the detective seems sincere in that assessment. A paper is pulled from her back pocket, unfolded just enough to be readable when it's held at arm's length for the suspect to read. It's a list, side-by-side comparisons. License plates, car makes and models, VINs… solid physical evidence would have been nice, but— "You're what's important from the dealership, Mr. Creevey." Spoken like a compliment.

Wilbur sidles forward in the chair, the one opposite bearing his leg squeaks as it scuffles side to side with his attempts to lean in and stab a finger at that paper. A lot of squinting goes on, a display of finding the whole thing so very difficult to read. His nose lifts slowly and he gives a dismissive sniff, though his exact words are: "Tha's a nice list ye got dere, lady cop." Her words may have only been spoken like a compliment, but they're taken exactly like that. To the tune of his importance, the Irishman positively preens and then tries to hide it. His palms slide back onto the table as he prefers to just eye her.

"We almost didn't catch on to what you were doing." Strike almost — this list wouldn't exist without the tip of someone quite outside the department, but Wilbur here doesn't need to know that. It's a fact that brings the smallest of frowns to the detective's face, but the downward turn isn't out of place as she studies the suspect. The half-folded, slightly crumpled paper is set lightly onto the table. "It was smart work." More compliment? Awe? Resentment, on the other side of the spectrum? Maggie's voice is even — hard to place, up for one's favourite interpretation. It continues that way. "I'm going to ask you again to give me the location. If you don't talk with me now, we can always turn you out on the street." Okay — that's up for less interpretation, but the detective's voice remains calm, not the angry bouts of threat some cops can be prone to. "They'll kill you, you know that— you told me that yourself."

It's quite clear that his favorite is the kind that would require that primping of his jacket lapels and shoulder posturing that occurs. Starved for recognition? Or just unable to fulfill his constant need for it. But he multitasks in responses, sitting up prouder whilst his mouth takes a turn downward into a sneer devoid of humor or allowance. Confidence. Perhaps he shouldn't have been primed quite so much, as now it makes him gives a little knowing turn of his head. "You know it, too," he retorts, twisting a thin finger at her, "Tha I'm good as dead. And tha's why I'll be stayin' right here. You law types. Won't turn even yer enemies to certain death. You ain't got it in you." And he sits against the chair and looks comfortable as can be.

"We can only hold you forty-eight hours without charging you. So far I haven't charged you with anything." So far. "We're not a hotel, Mr. Creevey. Sooner or later we're going to have to turn you loose, and if we let you go before we've arrested your boss," somebody else in this room has confidence, it would seem, "all because you haven't been forthcoming…" Maggie tips her head extra far to one side, eyebrows raising high, and regards the man for several long moments after. "I hear he has a temper."

"I said I 'ad names din I!" There's somewhat a hitch to Wilbur's poise as he brings his hands together, kneading with a hint of that anxiety of earlier. A nearly non-existant eyebrow wiggles its way downward as the same eye squints shut. Knead, knead. Think. "If ye'll let me go," he decides after some consideration of her, "It'll be wit' yer little 'seeeecret' police tail." The long pause she makes he also observes, keeping to a hunched down sort of quiet, playing the game of baiting each other's lies. But to her comment, something of a smirk returns. "Quite one," he's capable of leering with that same greasy confidence, though the hand he passes over his patchy head trembles either, though who could know if from some fear or some addiction. "So why would I wants to go an' betray a man like tha'? Perhaps ye heard what happened to the last man who did…"

Perhaps. Perhaps she heard something to that effect literally just earlier today.

Every little thing the weasely gangster says and does is taken quietly in by the detective standing tall across the table without response, save for one quick twitch of her eyes and then nothing. She folds her arms, white sleeves over white sleeves, and her observance continues. It seems, for some time, that she's simply going to remain there unmoving — until it's declared it story time. "I can tell you why. But why don't you tell me about it. What happened to the last man."

Squuuuueeeak. Palms against the slick surface of the table, the Weasel of the gang sliiiiides himself forward, leaning quite personably and then quite too far across the table towards her, pressing that space in which she only stands. His leg slides off the chair, that topical knee giving a spastic twitch as he does. Some shred of glory lights his eyes where he manages to keep his mouth in a straight, serious line, gauging her every muscle movement until the exact moment when he, low so that she'll have to strain just the right amount to hear, he licks his lip like a contented pet and shares: "… Boss even let me have a piece."

Strain she does — almost; it's in the procuring of the now empty seat, lowering into it, that Detective Powers hears the man's little divulgence. Her gaze has fallen off of him by then, pointed at a corner of the table, especially indiscernible. Handy, for when her movements pause before she sits down the rest of the way.

Settled, Maggie folds her arms near the edge of a table that seems woefully too small when this guy is on the other side. Regardless, she leans slightly ahead and looks at Creevey; two people sharing secrets. Curiosity glints, the stronger need-to-know kept at bay. A barely-there tremor intensifies a question that would otherwise be cavalier. "What did you do to him?"

Though he rocks into her space, breathes into her space — the return of that leer is not for her but some far off place he briefly imagines, though Wilbur's eyes never leave Maggie's. Perhaps in hers he sees some illusion of reminiscence. Some video to go with the audio she heard earlier. Whatever it is, it causes him a great amount of glee he does very little to stop from showing her. "Cut that saaaad bitch down to a reasonable size." His lips give a loud smack of satisfaction. Just long enough to accentuate the pause he artistically observes before a tip of his head towards her, that curiosity. "Oh. Sorry. Did ye say ye was friends?"

The curiosity may grow more intense, but Maggie's gaze doesn't move off of the gangster's — there's something almost daring, challenging in the way she completely, openly watches him while he watches her and tells his story; such as it is. It furthers when she re-adjusts her arms on the table, shifting shoulders to settle in that much more.

"I said he was your friend, too," she points out — fair's fair. A hint of a quick smirk comes and goes, as ambiguous as her statement. She swallows, but otherwise — outwardly — there's not much to go on. "So tell me what actually happened." Then, through especially measured out words, the return of that faint shake to her voice, the barely there tell (at least to those with ears for such details) that her calm voice isn't effortless. "Was he killed. For being a traitor?"

Fair's — whatever. Wilbur and his angry tell-tale veins want nothing to do with that kind of buddy association with the talked about man. Now with this anger, and Maggie's persistent cold shoulder to his deliberate taunts, he shifts uneasily. Boredom dries out his tone. Glances left and right are full of the same exasperation as when he looks to her and seems to just barely remember to express: "Duuhhh." Shift of one shoulder then the other and they walk him backwards, slithering a inch or two back to his own side.


Maggie stiffens, controlling the jolt that threatens her muscles.

The man's movements, his demeanor, have her glaring at him suspiciously after his… statement — duhhh — but if she hangs on to any of these skeptical speculations against the Weasel's telling of the truth, however, her speculation does nothing at all to stop her.

Duh — like he thinks she's stupid for thinking anything else.

Both her chair and the table screech as they're shoved by the force of the detective getting abruptly to her feet, one backwards, the other forwards. Her palms brace on the middle of the table, holding the weight she looms with. Those angry threats she so naturally avoided before make a milestone appearance.

"Tellll me where your boss is. I am not playing a game, here. I've been telling you the truth. I'll gladly take the names that you have, but I have names, Mr. Creevey." There is no shouting — no frenzy — just unpolluted anger, forced intensely through well-spoken words. Rational, even — as rational as anger ever is. "Do you think … a police tail by a couple of officers who couldn't care if a low-level gangster like you lived or died will stop someone like Roberto from finding you? I care; you could be important. But I won't be helping you, out there. I can help you in here. What I want, what you should want to give me, is a location — because trust me, it is better, for both of us, if you tell me now. If you help the police? You won't have the chance to wind up like Roscoe."

"Ah, ah, jeeez!" He's so easily knocked out of his cool calm, Wilbur, when that table suddenly comes at him as fast and as angry as she does. Without having fully retreated, he's caught extremely uncomfortably by the edge of it, jolting that leg and his stomach and sending him backwards against his own chair. There's barely even time to be pleased at finally having gotten a reaction; he's not particularly overjoyed by the one he gets. In fact, every bit of that confident facade cracks, but it isn't the creeping, whining persona underneath.

Suddenly, he's yelling more than her, spittle gathering at his mouth that he does nothing to control. "Help the police? Help the police?!"

Hands come up, slamming now where he wiped them before. "Like he was helpin' the police?" If she has a slight trembling tell, then so does he as he names, "Roscoe," and then it fades when the title doesn't appear to summon the myth, "ain't the Big Bad anymore, lady! I was dere! I'm trusted! They trust me! I'm a high fucking big deal, and ye seem to have cared somethin' pretty about whether he died so ye'll care about me!"

Fingers splay against his chest and then one points triumphantly to the ceiling, to the heavens beyond the police station. "I dun think you get what's going on 'ere. Roberto findin' me? I pray he does, you dumb ho, because he cares about me. I'm a fucking loyalist. So what are you fucking going to do 'bout dat?!"

Creevey's anger has much less of an effect on Detective Powers than hers did on him. She doesn't so much as flinch at the slam, only backing away after the fact, and only to straighten. Her gaze is fast-moving at his every gesture. "He seems really caring," she says flatly. "You were awfully quick to name names awhile ago. How do you think Roberto would feel about that? Or … those just the names of the people in the gang who aren't loyalists. Maybe they'll kill you, then."

She moves on either way, striding toward the table's left corner, close to breeching the barrier from one side of the room to the other, gaze nailed to Wilbur all the while. She leans into the corner. Lower: "A man sits in police custody long enough… he might wonder… what you said. If you've decided to split. And after getting himself caught, too — you had to make some kind of mistake." Maggie shoves herself away from the table and spreads both hands out wide. "Do you actually want to take that chance? Roberto doesn't seem to me like a rational man. You're nothing like Roscoe— we have you in a corner. It's not your fault. Believe it or not … people — your … people — are going to start to take the fall for things around here. Think about your options." She starts to turn away.

All this talk of killing him bothers Wilbur like an itch he can't scratch — but tries to anyway. Scritch, scritch, the sound of broken fingernails against flesh as he dives under the sleeve of his shirt at the shoulder. The options weigh him almost physically; or so it seems by the fact that he can't sit still. His anger has not yet flushed out, either, causing him to toss his head several times as he mutters fast and indecisive, "Fuckfuckfuckfuckity. No good motherfuckin'… I'm the one, I did. I saw right through the lies…" His head jerks up, finding her leaving and he flies forward halfway across the table again, pointing, "I was there; I knew you!! I had you made!" And it cost him a knee. But it seems to have cost his opponent more.

What bearing this has on her line of reasoning, or her leaving, is not immediately evident. It only assuages him into less screaming and more tugging at his clothes, his fingers, what's left of his hair. He knows what they'll think. He's called out others for the same. Then… he's settled, curling those reaching fingers together to stop the anxious movements and giving a little, rat-like sniff. "I ain't no fuckin' traitor. I won't talk ta ye." he concludes with upmost finality… and a strange soft underbelly of suggestion. "Have ta let me go… but an' important guy like me. He might have ta have his back watched. See where he goes… ye know."

Hands spread, posture right. He's on a throne of his own self-worth. "For safety."

Naturally, all this has prompted Maggie to turn around; he has her attention again, not that he ever truly lost it. She listens thoroughly but, showing no signs of relief, or agreement, or much of anything, she resumes the short trek to the secure door of this particular little room. She grasps the handle. "All right." The door opens. "No talking."


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