2007-07-27: Rightfully Accused


Persi_icon.gif McAlister_icon.gif George_icon.gif Saint_icon.gif Felix_icon.gif Aileen_icon.gif

Summary: A young man gets wrongfully accused for the right crime in a place where crime does pay.

Date It Happened: July 27, 2007

Rightfully Accused

The Den. Where Else?

Persi is here. Again. Weird how that happens. Anyway, Persi's actually got a drink this time — an entire bottle of rum, in fact, but she's not a lush, she's taking it very slowly, as there's most of the bottle still left. This time, however, she's not sitting around on a pool table — instead, she's secreted herself away in a corner, having borrowed a stool so that she could sit with her back against a wall. It LOOKS like she's watching a couple of old guys play pool, but really she's just sitting, watching the whole place with a dull look of boredom.

Saint is not here. Not again. Weird how that's not happening. Anyway, there are two old guys playing pool and one seems to be somewhat significantly better than the other one. "This right here is what I call Return To Sender." He coughs a bit, reaching up to rub his forehead before leaning over, wincing at the pain in his back and smacks the cue ball. It ricochets around the table, before smacking into the 12 ball… which was right next to where the cue ball started at. It sails off to the corner pocket and goes right in. Way to go old man!

Persi idly turns her attention to the old guy upon hearing the lame name for the shot in an appropriate old-man voice. Persi's not exactly the quickest person of the lot to respect old people, but she holds her tongue for the moment — however her attention is now definitely on their game as she takes another sip of the rum.

The Old Man smirks a bit as he chalks his cue up and walks around the table. "Hope you brought your checkbook, Marty. You're about to pay up." Marty, the other old guy, seems to not be impressed by this guy's confidence. And it doesn't matter, though, because he lines his shot up, rears back and sinks the 8 Ball without even a cause for alarm. Marty curses and the old man stands up, smiling. "Another one bites the dust." Marty throws his cue down and the two meet on the side of the table so Marty can pay up. In hundreds.

Persi raises her eyebrows a bit more as she watches the transaction, her fingers twitching slightly at the sight of the money, her instincts making it over-so-tempting to grab it and just run — but, then, she kinda likes this place and wants to be able to come back. So, she just watches, but takes a moment to interject a little comment, "Wow, old man…quoting Queen? You get a senior discount on iTunes or something?"

"Honey, I knew Queen when they were a garage band." The old guy chuckles a bit, counting the cash and putting it away into his pocket. Or at least, that's where it looks like it goes. Who knows with the man's deft fingers. He picks up his pool cue and looks around the room, possibly for other prospects that he can make some more retirement money off of. "Anybody else want to have a go at the old man?"

Persi smirks a little and leans back even more against the wall, setting the rum between her legs to hold it in place while she folds her arms behind her head, "I'm sure you knew when Gregory was an altar boy, but that just proves how damn old you are. I'm sure as hell not playin' ya, though. Some bastard stole my wallet. I'm kinda strapped on cash, y'know?" Of course, those two may not be related, but they're both true…ish.

"That's too bad. You should be more careful in the city." The old man just smiles and looks around for a bit longer. Nobody seems to be stepping up to the plate, so he tosses the cue on the table and limps his way over towards a table. "Oh, been on my feet too long." Wincing, he lowers himself down into a chair and sighs, finally getting the chance to relax. All that money making is tiresome on his old bones.

Persi smirks a little at the old man and raises her eyebrows at him, her interest piqued, "All this money-making, huh? Just how much have you made?" She hops down off the barstool, bringing her drink with her to wander over and flop down at the old man's table with the assumption that some old codger isn't going to complain about a little company.

Old and lonely, the old man just looks up and spots the girl having come to sit at his table. "Yer age sure don't have much in the way of manners." His lips curl up into an old fogey styled smirk, which may or may not look -really- creepy, considering he's ancient and she's… not so ancient. Cradle Robber Alert! Moving onward, though, the old man just offers a small shrug. "That there ain't none of yer business, girlie. Since yer ain't got nothin' to play for."

The Den ain't exactly hopping tonight. Oh, it isn't /slow/ - is it ever, in the evenings? But it's Sunday, and the Sunday bunch thinks more about godliness than drunkenness (nevermind that after a couple bottles, you just might see Him. Considered a bad route, really.) as a general rule. There's a couple of die-hard teamsters, a group of FDNY guys that have become regulars playing pool - that old guy and the impolite chick.. and the blonde that comes banging out of the back room, carrying a box labelled 'Grey Goose' that clinks meaningfully. Puffing and blowing, she sets it down behind the bar, a towel tossed over her shoulder.

Persi takes a long draw off of the bottle of rum, then just grins back at the old man, "Yeah, well, most people your age don't have much in the way of teeth, so, there." Looking a little disgruntled about something or another, Persi leans back onto the back legs of her chair and eyes the old man, "C'mon, tell me! Maybe I can help ya out, maybe skim a little off the top?" She turns her head somewhat at the sound of clinking from over by the bar, halfway hoping to catch sight of somebody dropping something and a bunch of dramatic class-shattering, but no such luck! She does, however, squint at the woman behind the bar for a couple of moments, not even considering how she's just ignoring the old guy all of a sudden.

"I ain't exactly in need of a partner, if that's what yer gettin' at, little girl. This here's no fool's game. This here's my retirement fund." He doesn't really smile anymore and tries to look over towards the bar. Can't really see anything. He's too old, that's for sure. So he looks back at the girl that's sitting with him. "Are yer even old 'nuff to be in here?"

George makes his way in through the crowd, nodding and shaking hands with a couple of the union guys along the way. "Hey, see you all in November, right?" Those near enough and sober enough to notice, murmur their general approval. From there, he looks around and spots Persi and the older fellow, deciding to hang back and stay out of her way. She could spin yesterday's incident very much in his disfavor if she were so inclined.

The Jersey accent from behind the bar rings out - pointing out to the firemen, "One more round, right? And don't sit on the table - your fat ass will break something." Ali waves a hand that way, pulling out a tray -
No, the one she waved at isn't fat. He's calendar material. He /isn't/ sitting on the edge anymore, and is getting quite a bit of good-natured ribbing from the rest of the station-house.

Ali starts setting up bottles, flashing a grin at the door when it opens, though not /quite/ looking up. Apparently Persi and the old guy are secondary considerations, if she's even noticed 'em yet.

Persi catches sight of George while she's peering over at McA, but then her attention's drawn back to the old man for a second. She looks back at him with a bland sort of expression, "I dunno, old man, are you young enough to give a damn?" That said, she's up out of her chair and heading for the bar, mostly-full bottle of rum in hand. She's not exactly sneaking up on Ali or anything, and the place isn't very full, so she's probably seen on the approach before she can get up to the bar and make some sorta snide comment.

This is just the chance he needs to make his clean getaway. The old man is up from his table and stumbling off towards the back without so much as a word. He does so in a way that should keep him from being noticed by most of anyone. Hopefully. He's just some old man trying to get to the bathroom. Nobody pay attention to him. Please.

Obligingly, George ignores the old guy, instead making his way toward the bar along the other side. "I hear good things about Atkins!" he helpfully calls out to Mr. August, before grabbing a stool and waving down Ali. "Hey, I didn't just see you carting out a bottle of the good stuff, did I?"

"Bottle, no. Box, yea.." It's likely that Ali wouldn't notice, as busy as she is, but when one of the teamsters grunts and levers himself up from the bar, she looks up.. and spies Persi.

Persi's approach gets a raised eybrow, and causes that distraction the old guy's looking for, looks like. The DJ actually flounders a moment, trying out - "I'm guessing you don't want a beer, then, huh?" And she tries out a bit of a lopsided smile. Yes, it's tossed casually at the woman - and Ali, oddly enough, even double-checks to make sure there's a broad expanse of /bar/ between her and the woman oncoming.

Persi is either stopped by the bar or stops voluntarily at the bar, leaning forward to set her elbows on it and her chin on her palms out of laziness. Either way, she just peers over at McAlister and raises her eyebrows, "So! You're a bartender, huh? I don't think we ever got properly introduced the other day. What's your name, Blondie?" Certainly, she isn't violent at all, but that may or may not have something to do with how full the bottle of rum is that she's set down next to those propped elbows.

George shakes his head. "Box, right, but that would sound like I was asking for the whole crate for myself. Would be rude." He leaves off as Persi draws the bartender's attention, contenting himself with a passive-aggressive you-better-not-try-anything glower. Meanwhile, Saint is ICly out of the room, /somewhere/.

Enter The Saint. Completely dressed not like an old man or even looking like an old man for that matter, Saint brings himself into the Den through the entrance. He's got his hands in his pockets, a goofy look on his face and seems to be a general, well, regular dude. He even sighs as he enters the place and makes it a point to not make eye contact with anyone. They're all criminals, after all. He's just, y'know, a regular guy.

There isn't much of a mark left on Aileen's face. She's a doctor, she knows how to properly treat swelling and she's learned a few tricks in her day to diminish the appearants of unsightly things. Such as red marks where someone smacked you in the face. Still, it's been a very long, tiring day at work and Aileen was supposed to meet a friend of hers for drinks before she headed back to crash for a few hours before she begins the whole reckless cycle again.

The bar itself has a bunch of FDNY guys taking up a pool table and a couple regulars - it's by no means overly busy on Sunday night.

Ali? Ali's lopsided grin gets a bit more genuine. "Ali. You should probably stay away from the till - no offense." She finishes setting up the tray.. then moves down to George. "Grey goose? Just straight or something mixed? I'm getting better at the mixed thing, but I make no promises."

"And -" Back to Persi - "just part time. Pays the bills, sort of. And I owe the owner, you know?"

Persi nods slowly to the information she gets from Ali, meanwhile giving George a little, innocent smile. She does give the till a little, curious look and wrinkles her nose a bit, "Oh, I wouldn't rob this place. It's too hot to steal anything tonight." That said, she reaches into one of her front pockets and pulls out a neatly-folded stack of ten hundred-dollar bills, which she slowly splays out into a fan shape, only to start fanning herself with it, meanwhile putting on a super-excessively-cliche Mississippi accent, "Lawdy, it's hot."

Right behind the saint is a sinner. Of a sort, anyhow. Felix is off shift, and has removed suit jacket, tie, and gun, all of which are safely locked in the crappy, crappy Honda parked a little ways down the block. He comes trudging in, looking weary and exasperated, and very glad to get out of the heat.

George rolls his eyes at the showy bankroll, but - satisfied that Persi isn't going to resume yesterday's merriment, at least in the near future - leans forward and nods to Ali, instead. "Surprise me. I'm not too picky— and you'd have to really work hard to screw up /that/ stuff, anyway." With his back turned to the entrance, the new entrant pass him right by.

Saint's still on the quiet side, before finally heading up to where everyone else is. He cops a seat on the far stool and kind of folds his hands on the top of the bar. No sense in trying to get himself noticed too much, he'll just wait his turn. Patiently. His peripheral catches sight of a bunch of green bills and already his wheels are turning on how to get his hands on it. Maybe.

Glancing at her phone as it vibrates in her pocket, Aileen wrinkles her nose. Looks like her friend's flaking on her. Wearily shruging her shoulders, the doctor turns for the door.

The bartender eyes the cash, and shakes her head, responding to George, first - "I don't /know/ enough to suprise ya, but what the hell." And.. there's a bottle of good vodka, and Ali busying herself with it. The not-at-all-old guy down the bar? he gets a grin. "one sec, huh?"

There's something odd, though, in how she looks back to Persi - and there's a sudden firming of her jaw, as though she's fighting her /own/ temptation. Instead, for now, she settles on - "You wouldn't make it as a Belle. You got the accent goin', though."

Persi smirks at McAli's compliment on her accent and promptly folds the cash, returning it to the front-right pocket where it came from, "Tch, I'm from Seattle. I think I watch too many movies." That said, she turns around and leans back against the bar, retrieving her rum to sip on it s'more, meanwhile continuing to have a tug-o-war with George for Ali's attention, "So, Ali. If you're only part-time, whadda you do in the rest of your time? You a student or something?" Saint isn't quite noticed yet, though, Felix gets a momentary glance of recognition.

"I just moved back from Seattle. I miss it," Felix says, overhearing and apparently feeling the need to interject. It's noted in a rather weary voice - still glazed-over from work, apparently. "Gimlet, please," he adds, to McAlister, when her attention turns his way.

George scratches idly at the back of his neck. "You probably do, but then Texas and Louisiana don't give you much of a feel for a generic Southern accent." Because all the rest may as well be one big state called Dixie, right? Except for Florida. "And what's a gimlet, anyway?" he adds, noting Felix's arrival now. "Sounds like something you'd use to pry open an engine block."

Saint just stays on his end of the bar, not really understanding anything that the others are chatting about. Instead, he just keeps a close eye on Persi and her money. Watching to see where it's put and such. And trying to not look conspicuous at all. Thank the dickens for peripheral vision, that's for sure. His eyes are drawn over to Ali soon enough and he nods, waving his hand dismissively, as he's not in a hurry. Not yet, anyway.

"First time he ordered it -" Ali flashes Felix a grin. "I thought it was a cat or something. Not that I make a decent one." A.. concoction is placed in front of George. Dare as you will. It has pineapple juice in it. And something /blue/. With the guy at the bar waving her off? She starts in on Felix's next, setting up a tumbler and rocks.

"I'm a DJ - Midnight McAlister, WYRK." A wink comes - and she cycles up the 'Radio Voice', there. "Queen of the Night Owls." A sheepish shake to her head.. and she lets it go, waving a hand. "One day maybe folks will tune in, right?"

Persi turns around partially and peers at Ali for a second, "Oh, crap, I know you! Yeah! Believe me, I'm always up late. …don't really own a radio, but, hey, I hang around with people that do. I've heard ya before!" She beams at the woman, this distraction keeping her, yet again, from noticing Saint, despite the fact that finding the man was the whole reason she came here in the first place.

"In this case, it's a drink. Lime juice and gin," Felix explains, quietly, even as he rubs at his eyes, wearily. And then Ali's voice catches him. "No wonder you sound familiar," he says, a smile creeping into his voice. "I've heard your show before…"

"One day last week, you pessimist." George shoots Ali a see-what-I-mean grin, then tries out the Dole and Curacao, raising the glass afterward in half-verbal approval. "Mmm. —Mike's Hard Lemonade does some decent stuff with lime. Haven't tried a lot of gin, unless you mean the card game."

Saint waits his turn at the end of the bar, not really wondering when it's going to happen or even what he's going to drink. He's not really a drinker, that's for sure. He's more interested in… acquisitions. He idly taps his fingers on the bar, not really knowing of the bartender's radio show and thus having nothing to add to that particular section of the conversation.

"Yeah? A couple of listeners is a good thing." Ali grins, delighted - and whatever standoffishness she has fades as she moves down toward the Sainted one. "You should check out tonight's - there's a guy who's talking about a light hacking project, and we may even get a Bansky call-in. Don't tell anybody that one - supposed to be a secret. Probably won't happen - but.. damn if it does, right?" A nod to Saint - "What can I get you?" The gimlet is left in front of Felix as she goes.

Persi looks down the bar and to peer at the other person becoming involved in the conversation. After a second of peering, she scoots down, moving from stool to stool until she's on the one right next to Saint, at which point she just squints over at Saint and greets him with the most acidic I'm-Going-To-Kill-You voice she can manage, "Why hellooooo there. Mind if I buy you a drink?"

"I've had the Hard Lime. It's not bad, but a bit too sweet," Felix explains. "Matter of taste," he says, with a faint shrug, though a few sips of the gimlet seems to help a bit, and he looks a little less frazzled.

"It's lousy if you overdo it," George replies, nodding vaguely, "but so are a lot of things. —And Banksy would be even better if you could land a TV gig, don't you think?" He works on his drink some more, while Saint gets both the women talking to him at once, the cad.

Saint is busy looking at the bar, so he doesn't really notice that the Stool Hopper has made her way down to where he is. He just looks at Ali and frowns a bit, coming out of his pocket with some lint and about 2 dollars in change. It's dropped on the bar and he's already looking apologetic for the mess. "Can I get anything with that?" He sounds almost sheepish, practically whispering that. Of course, he's jarred with the arrival of
Persi and blinks. "Uh… no thanks. I can uh… manage." He looks at the change, Persi, Ali, change, Persi, Ali… "Can't I?"

Ali… eyes the change. And - she mutters something typically impolite, and starts counting. "Yeah, I'll see what I can do." She pulls the pile down the bar, just a bit -t he easier not to be in the way. "Who wants to do TV? You have to have a face for TV - mine's better on the radio. Seriously."

Felix eyes Saint a bit skeptically. Is he joking? Persi gets a glance, and then a double take. She was there that evening in the park.

Persi reaches down and pats her pockets for a second, then reaches over and claps a hand firmly on Saint's back — probably abit more firmly than necessary, as if she were TRYING to make it hurt a bit, "Ah, well, you're better off, I just remembered — somebody stole my wallet!" That said, she leaaans over, putting all her weight against Saint, just to annoy him, "Youuuu wouldn't happen to know who it was, would you?"

George sighs, resting his chin in one hand and motioning to Ali with the other. "Listen. C'mere. You look great, all right? Quit telling yourself otherwise." Persi's over-the-top performance gets a sidelong glance, but meh, Saint's a big boy. He can take care of the thieving little wench himself, surely.

Wincing at each pat that comes from Persi, Saint just sighs and looks around. "Huh?" He finally seems to pick up on whatever it is she said and kind of just shrugs a bit himself. "Probably the same person that took mine." He frowns and sighs, looking down at the bar and shaking his head. This has not been a good couple days for him.

Ali rolls her eyes at George. "Yeah. Whatever - " And. Uh. She loses count of a handful of pennies, sighing and starting over. Then, stoopping. "To /hell/ with this - " She sweeps the whole pile of change off into her hand, then dumps it into the bottom of the till. "So, what, a single whiskey, neat?"

Persi pauses and looks over at Saint, one eyebrow raised a little, "Are you serious?" Persi gives a little 'hmf' and sits back up straight, sticking out one arm to give Saint as firm a shove as she can manage on the shoulder. No matter the result, she tops off the motion with an irritated grumble, "That's what you get for losing MY wallet. Ass."

And for some reason, Felix is suddenly uncomfortable. He hastily fishes out tip and tab, and deposits them on the bar, stuffing his money clip clumsily back into his pocket, and rises.

George remains where he is, finishing off the drink and watching the free show. Which is no doubt going to culminate in either a fistfight or a French kiss inside of five seconds. Or, if life decides to be particularly entertaining, both.

Not good. Poor Saint is literally knocked off the stool! His arms go flailing and he ends up falling backwards, before colliding with the floor. Grunting and wincing, the poor goofball just rubs the back of his head. "Ow… what? I don't even know what you're talking about. What wallet?" He frowns and works his way back up to leaning on the stool so he can answer Ali. "Yes, please." Poor guy.

Oh. Crap. Ali heads for the bar - "Hey - wait.. " Startled, she's halfway up and /over/ it by the time she sorts out that the guy's not actually, you know, /broken/ or anything.

And.. grumbling again, she drops back down behind the bar. "Jesus. You sure you didn't have something to drink before you got here? One. that's it. You got it?"

Persi peers over her shoulders and down at the man on the floor. As he gets up and leans on the stool, she pivots on her own stool and kicks back enough to set a pair of boots atop Saint's back with a little sigh of comfort, "Hold on, hold on. Before you get up, why don't you tell me what you stole BEFORE I check my pockets so I can calculate how much I have to kick your ass — of course, feel free to contribute whatever you feel like contributin' before I check." She really hasn't even checked her pockets yet, she just knows to be damn wary of the man.

George does a double-take. Brawling, he was sort of expecting. Stumblebumming, he was not. "Hey, you all right there, buddy?" he asks Saint, hopping off his own stool (with the looseness of movement that typically follows one's first round of the evening) and leaning down to see how badly hurt he is. Oh, well, those boots of Persi's are going to be a problem in that regard, aren't they?

"I'm okay… I'm okay." Saint says, reaching up with his arm to shove Persi's feet off him. "Geez, what is your damage?" He looks around at the people in the bar, who've all been watching him and holds his hands up. "I don't -have- anything of yours. I don't even know you! We played pool -one- time and you're already trying to finger me for your own misplacement of your wallet!" Saint just sighs and tries to dust off his suit. "Look…" He goes for it. Pulling out his pockets. Taking off his jacket and laying it on the bar. Patting himself down. "Nothing. I have nothing." He points off in Ali's direction. "I'm on the verge of getting kicked out of my apartment, because some old guy in here hustled me for my rent and I just got FIRED this morning!" Saint's arms get to flailing around. "So if you're done accusing me, I'd REALLY LIKE MY DRINK NOW!"

Ali .. pours the jigger of whiskey she'd just poured right back in the bottle. "So. Yeah. Why don't you two go outside, sort out whatever you're sortin' out, right? /then/ come back in and get a whiskey. I don't need any more broken windows. And maybe, man, you could calm down while you're at it. Your whiskey's going to be waiting."

"oh. And don't play the old guys. They /are/ sharks, yeah." She shakes her head.. and gives the remaining teamster at the bar a look. "It wasn't you, right Lenny?"

Persi lets out a little sigh and leans back so she can stick her hands in her pockets for a second. After a lingering moment of feeling around in the tiny little pockets, she reaches over to grab Saint by the scruff of his shirt, meanwhile standing up, "Yeah, you know what? I don't make a habit of obeying people, but that's a damn good idea. Why DON'T we go outside, loverboy? Then you can explain to me where that cash that Ali, here, and George, there, both saw, ran off to." That said, she's working on tugging him toward the door with the assumption that she's got more brute force at her command than the poor guy.

George glances slowly back and forth between Saint and Persi. Without saying anything out loud, he re-e-e-eaches back with one hand, wrapping fingers around the upper leg of his stool. If they don't take the hint, and start brawling in closed quarters instead, he wants to be ready.

"Ow! Hey what are you even talking about?!" Saint's snatching up his jacket and stumbling towards the door. "I don't HAVE anything! I just SHOWED you!" He pulls and tugs to get himself out of Persi's grip, the moment he gets closer to the door. He doesn't make a break for it, though, since he's not a guilty party. He just gets to putting his jacket back on. "You can't just go around accusing people of stuff. You won't make any friends that way…"

McAlister just - again, oddly, seems mostly confused. Frowning, she backs up to the wall, watching events as they unfold; gears are clearly turning upstairs. Whatever just happened, she seems a bit put off by it.

Persi lets Saint go when he gets insistent about it, but then pauses and considers for a second, "…alright, then, if you're so innocent, let me patcha down and see what I come up with. 'cause I KNOW there ain't anybody else in this bar what could've gotten that outta my pocket. Hell, nobody even got close enough…" Persi's temper's obviously building, and she's getting more and more belligerent as moments pass.

George straightens up, looking back over at Ali, and looking confused because she's looking confused. As opposed to annoyed, which would be the typical reaction to this sort of thing. "I think maybe we should give the lovebirds a few minutes alone," he stage-whispers, gesturing to an open table not too far off.

"Fine! You wanna' check me, then check me! I don't have a thing to hide!" Saint sighs and shakes his head, holding his hands up and out! He's definitely not even hesitating about any of this. He's got nothing to hide. Nothing at all. He hasn't done anything, that's his story and he's going to stick as closely to it as he possibly can and that's the bottom line because Saint Cold said so!

Ali… just nods vaguely to George.. and drifts that way, taking a towel with her, using it to wipe at her hands. "m' just hoping they don't break another window. Seriously - Jack didn't exactly leave me with much petty cash. The /first/ one took most of that."

Persi takes Saint up on the offer without hesitation. She doesn't think about the fact that it might look odd in a room full of people, especially firefighters and old guys, for her to be patting him down like this. Either way, she doesn't come up with anything — a fact that makes her look quite disgruntled. Again, she checks her pockets, then eyes Saint, "What'd you do, swallow it? 'cause I'd be more than happy to fish it back out…"

George settles down at the table, shaking his head. "I don't know, they seem too focused on each other to bother much with the environment." Leaving the commentary at that, he switches topics and lowers his voice. "I thought about taking your advice, by the way… decided not to. Gotta trust my instincts on this."

Saint sighs and puts his arms back down, shaking his head. "I. Don't. Have. It." is the last of what he has to say to her, before he moves himself back over to where he was sitting. He plops himself back down on the stool and leans over onto the counter. His head goes down into his crossed arms and he sighs. "Can I have my drink now? Please?"

Ali raises a finger - getting back up to head back to the bar - it's the work of a moment to jigger out a single over rocks, and wordlessly set it on the counter. And she calls back to George - "I wasn't kidding, you know."

Persi gives off a frustrated sigh and spins around to plop down against the wall right next to the door. She doesn't continue to pursue Saint other than with her eyes — from that spot, she just staaaaaaares at him with a certain degree of either anger, hatred, or a little of both. Staaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaare.

George looks to Ali, shrugs. A lot is being left unsaid, obviously, but… there's a limit to how chatty he can get while she's still on shift. "Would it help if I told you /I/ took the money?" he says, instead, looking back at Persi. "Hid it inside one of the pockets at the pool tables— I'm sure the boys from 540 would be /more/ than happy to help you track it down from there. Right, boys?"

Finally, she's leaving him alone. Poor Saint just sighs and looks up to peer at his drink. "Thanks. Sorry about… all that." is offered towards Ali, before he grabs it and… doesn't even drink it. He sighs and just sets it back down on the counter. He's suddenly not even very wanting of it anymore. He's been through too much in these last few minutes to really even enjoy the drink.

Persi glowers for a few moments more, then glances over to the side at George, "Oh really? You never struck me as the thieving sort. I'll believe ya the second one of 'em whips a thousand bucks out of the pool table." She then folds her arms on her knees and sets her chin atop those arms with a little sigh, her anger and conviction fading somewhat from her features.

The DJ shakes her head - and moves back around the bar. "No problem - just leave it there if it's not your speed." And she pauses, looking to George - "Do me a favor and watch the till? I gotta move some of these boxes up and I'm about out of time." A grin, then. "I'll owe ya one." And she's heading for the back room - positive answer or no.

George nods to Ali, hanging out and checking voicemails and continuing to watch Persi out of the corner of his eye. And looking over at the register from time to time, though really no one's likely to get away with robbing /that/ when there's this many people around.

Sighing, Saint just shakes his head, leaving the drink on the counter. He plants his hands in his pockets, looks around the bar, and then heads off towards the bathroom. He's not even supposed to be here today.
Into the back room Ali goes, in that moment wiping a tired hand across her forehead. Nobody's paying attention, after all.

Persi pushes herself up from where she's been sitting and, as Saint finds his way to the bathroom, she decides to point a finger at George, instead, "Hey, George. Listen. When that bastard comes back out, tell him I'm GONNA get my money back, one way or another. Tell him that's a damn promise, alright?" With that cliche demand, she turns and brushes her way back out the door onto the street to be on her way, whether to home or someplace else, who knows?

A while later, Saint comes back out of the bathroom. He heads over to the stool where he was sitting, looks under it, snatches out the folded hundreds. He flips through them, tosses a hundred on the bar and pockets the rest before leaving with a smile. Damn, he's good.

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