2007-02-21: Subway Shakedown

Starring:

Hector_icon.gif Mr-Hendrickson_icon.gif Lachlan_icon.gif Mara_icon.gif

Summary: Mara heckles Hector. Hector glares at Lachlan. Lachlan flips the bird to Hector, flirts with Mara, and mouths off to Mr. Hendrickson. Mr. Hendrickson puts the squeeze on Lachlan. Hector secretly cheers for Mr. Hendrickson. Mara follows Mr. Hendrickson. Nobody dies. Today.

Date It Happened: February 21st, 2007

Subway Shakedown


Subway

Freshly showered and in a pinstriped suit tailored to flatter long limbs and a trim posture, it would be an understatement to say that Hector looks somewhat more charming than he has in recent days. Content to wait his turn outside of the train while the more impatient vie for places to sit inside, he is conspicuous only for the dark bruise spreading fresh from the salt and pepper at his temple. And perhaps for his height.

Mr. Hendrickson looms above the crowds as he boards the subway train, even above Hector, likely having to duck simply to board the train itself. He wears a dark grey/almost black overcoat over his suit, belted and buttoned to protect it from any stray filth that might sully it. He looks around momentarily, before glaring at a young gentlemen who occupies one of the subway seats. The youth fidgets nervously before standing and making for the other side of the car, at which point Mr. Hendrickson occupies the now-vacant seat.

A smartly, if not somewhat eccentrically dressed woman with dark hair darn near saunters up behind the tall man. "Not sleeping on your bench today, Hector?" The woman's voice is thick with an accent. Chiefly British, but with a hint of something else in there. Whatever it is, she's suppressing it. A shiny silver name badge pinned to her chocolate-coloured vest suggests that her name is Detective K.L. Damaris. "You're not going to give me an excuse to arrest you today, are you? I really do prefer it when you make my job simpler," she jokes softly.

Large dogs are not allowed on the subway train, even leashed and well-behaved as Lachlan Deatley's two Dobermans usually are. Thus the Scotsman is unaccompanied today and seems to be rather uncomfortable as a result. Dressed in his usual worn clothes and old brown leather jacket, he looks a lot more homeless than Hector at the moment. He's a few people ahead of the two Brits in line, but not too far behind Mr. Hendrickson. When he enters the train, he casts a glance around before pushing his way toward a pole that just happens to be quite near a pretty young lady. Uncharacteristically enough, he doesn't strike up a conversation with her immediately — in fact, he doesn't seem to notice her at all. His left hand is wrapped in a dishtowel.

Brows slightly lifted while he watches the bulk of Mr. Hendrickson stooping onto the train, it takes Hector a moment to recognize that he is being spoken to. The fact that it is a familiar voice prompts him to snap out of it quickly enough, at least, and he tucks his hands into his pockets to give Mara a quick glancing over before he looks back to the train, where his eyes linger upon the back of Lachlan's head. Then his hand, before he ducks out of sight, and Hector steps forward to follow him. Hm. "I gave you plenty of excuses yesterday, but you missed them all. And no. I see an actual bed in my immediate future."

Mr. Hendrickson sits in his pilfered seat, drawing an uncomfortable or nervous look from a passenger or two due to his intimidating display, but as is typical in New York, it is doubtful if any of the others bothered to notice. Mr. Hendrickson instead settles in, pulling the New York Times from the inside of his coat and opening it up, browsing the headlines in a rather nonchalant manner.

Mara follows Hector into the train with a broad grin on her face, exposing the gap between her front teeth. "Well I'm so sorry I missed /that/. Booking's been getting lonely without you. It's been a while since I've been able to pull strings for someone." She leaves the seats for people less able to stand than her and instead reaches up to grab one of the holds hanging from the ceiling of the car. "I think I've only seen you dressed like this for arraignment." She eyes Hendrickson's well-dressed hulk of a form briefly, as if making a mental note.

When Hector and Mara climb onto the train, Lachlan is eyeing the enormous Mr. Hendrickson in the manner of one staring at a novelty. Hey, he knew a guy nearly that tall back in the circus! But this isn't the same one, he realizes, and he returns his attention to the passengers still pouring into the train — one in particular. It takes a moment of squinting before he manages to vaguely recognize Hector. It's hard to do so when he's dressed like a human being instead of a ragamuffin. When the recognition hits, the Scotsman's lips turn down in a scowl.

"Perhaps tomorrow I will steal a pack of cigarettes, or hold up a liquor store with a broken bottle." Preferring to stand rather than sit given that the only clear seats left seem to have become unoccupied only recently by virtue of being in Mr. Hendrickson's general vicinity, he draws one hand out of its pocket to wrap it around the first free pole that he comes across. "There is a very large man on this train. I should think him more interesting to ogle than my sense of fashion." Speaking of ogling, Hector's eyes meet Lachlan's evenly across the train, and he smiles. Thinly.

Mr. Hendrickson does not appear to mind the wide berth he is given, and instead peruses his newspaper, relaxing while waiting for the rest of the passengers to finish boarding. He does, however, glance up at Mara, making note of her badge and giving her that stainless-steel smiles before returning to his paper.

"Yes," Mara allows, "But my mother encouraged me once or twice not to talk to strangers." Clearly Mama Damaris' efforts were in vain. "While you may be strange, I do actually know you." She leans in toward Hector in a conspiratorial fashion to whisper, "Could he bench a truck, you reckon?" She's silenced immediately by the smile flashed in her direction. She can't even begin to hide the surprise caused by that.

"Yes," Mara allows, "But my mother encouraged me once or twice not to talk to strangers." Clearly Mama Damaris' efforts were in vain. "While you may be strange, I do actually know you." She leans in toward Hector in a conspiratorial fashion to whisper, "Could he bench a truck, you reckon?" She's silenced immediately by the smile flashed in her direction. She can't even begin to hide the surprise caused by that.

The only thing Hector will find on Lachlan's part of the train is a glare — and a subtle one-finger salute. A one-finger salute from the lefty's right hand, of course, as it just wouldn't be as effective coming from his poorly bandaged left hand. Besides, it hurts to use that hand right now. The Scotsman leans into and loosely wraps his arm around his own pole as the train starts off.

"I was a stranger the first time you spoke to me. Besides. He looks friendly enough." Not really paying attention, however, Hector tuts to himself at Lachlan's salute, eyes still focused upon /him/ so that he manages to miss that stainless-steel smile. He misses all the interesting stuff. Honestly. "A motorcycle, perhaps."

Mr. Hendrickson pays the rest of the passengers no mind, instead simply sitting and reading his paper. He does, however, give half of his attention to the cop-lady, in case she does anything stupid. He was, after all, on the books, although he did not have his teeth at the time. As far as he is aware, he hasn't been so sloppy as to have attracted /too/ much attention from the NYPD.

Mara's left in stunned silence for almost a full minute. When she finally finds her voice again, she asks "Did you study at Oxford?" She tugs absently at her vest, and fusses with the ruffles of her shirt.

With his message clearly conveyed, Lachlan puts his finger back down and shifts his eyes briefly to Mara. Hmm. A pretty cop. Go figure! Shame she seems friendly with Asshole Number One. After studying her a moment, the Scot turns an impassive gaze on Mr. Hendrickson, or more specifically Mr. Hendrickson's paper. He's looking at the pictures more than the words, since reading is largely dull.

"What?" The random nature of the question is enough to prompt Hector's attention back onto Mara (effectively interrupting the dirty look he was in the process of giving Lachlan), and then past her to Mr. Hendrickson when the train lurches a bit, and he tightens his grip on the pole to avoid knocking into her. "No."

Mr. Hendrickson glances up from his paper to eye Hector a moment when the train lurches, the large man leaning over slightly to compensate. He turns a page of his paper, and flicks it calmly, scanning the pages for interesting news. Unfortunately, there doesn't appear to be any.

"Just curious," Mara shrugs. If she's still shaken up, she doesn't show it too terribly much. Though her gaze does keep sweeping across the car, and perhaps lingering every time it passes over Hendrickson. "I attended law school there for a year, is all."

When the train lurches unexpectedly, it pushes Lachlan into the pole he leans against, and causes him to hit his chest against it. Since his chest is bruised, this elicits a sharp hiss and gritted teeth from him. /Damn it/. And it's all Hector's fault. The Englishman is given another glower once the dog trainer has righted himself.

"University of Southampton," Hector clarifies, following the source of her distraction to eye the much larger shape of Mr. Hendrickson even as he is eyed back. "I never considered a transfer." Lachlan's hiss and the resulting glower, registered out of the corner of his eye, earn a chuckle at the Scotsman's expense. Idiot.

Mr. Hendrickson casts a glance between Lachlan and Hector, rolling his eyes and going back to his paper. After a moment, he turns the page yet again, apparently not finding anything worth reading about in the past two pages. It looks like this is going to be a long, boring train ride.

"A fine school," Mara murmurs and finally fixes a curious gaze on Lachlan. What the heck is he scowling at?

That better not be laughter at /his/ expense. Lachlan's eyes narrow further, but he keeps to himself. Instead, he amuses himself by glancing at Mara and, seeing as she's looking at him, he smirks and winks at her. Heyyyy baby.

"I thought so." Mild-manners are resumed when Hendrickson goes back to his paper — and dropped almost as quickly when Hector turns to see the way Lachlan is looking at Mara. He scowls. Hard.

Mr. Hendrickson sighs, not finding any interesting news, and folds his paper neatly before standing, tucking it underneath his arm. He makes his way toward Lachlan, and pauses as he passes the Scotsman, placing a large hand rather firmly on his shoulder, and speaking in a low, quiet tone of voice. A sort of not-quite-whisper for when you'd rather people not pry. "Lach, I presume? You may be familiar with a mutual associate of ours, a Mr. Carmichael."

Noticing how the flirtation bothers Hector, Mara makes a point of winking back while the man isn't looking at her. Heyyyy, yourself. She stiffens up immediately when the terribly large man with the freaky metal teeth rests his hand on Lachlan's shoulder. One hand releases the strap above her to slowly slide around and, apparently, scratch an itch at the base of her spine.

Yeah, Lach's totally got it. He knows it. He /sees/ it. But then there's a massive hand on his shoulder, and he glances up at Hendrickson with an expression that would denote great displeasure. /Excuse/ me, get your hand /off/ my /shoulder/. It isn't until Hendrickson mentions Carmichael that the Scotsman's expression becomes one of slight fear. /Shit/. It takes him a moment to collect his composure and respond: "Dunna know wha' yer talkin' 'bout, mate." Deny Everything.

This happens fairly quickly, as there is plenty to look at once Mr. Hendrickson has pushed to his feet. "Oh dear," is his assessment of the press of hand to shoulder, and Lachlan's change of expression. And denial. "This should be interesting."

Mr. Hendrickson frowns slightly, and continues to speak in a low, quiet voice. "Do not make this more complicated than it need be, Lach. Mr. Carmichael is not pleased that you have repeatedly decided to ignore his warnings and undercut his business. All he asks is that you desist, and pay a modest amount of cash as compensation, and you and he may go your separate ways."

"Bollocks," Mara mutters. "I /hate/ interesting." Her hand then slips into her pocket, which would appear to be bigger than one might expect on a pair of women's dress pants.

Instead of cowing Lachlan, however, the offer causes him to grin brazenly. He's got his pride — a lot of it — and he's also got a pretty police officer over there. She winked at him. They clearly have a relationship. He must Impress. "'Ll no' pay Carmichael /bollocks/," he grunts. "Ye can tell 'im to take his warnings 'n' his business and stuff 'em up his arse." With a broader, lewder grin, he adds, "An' tell 'im his daughter's a pretty little thing too." He went there.

"You simply hate fun. That is why you are a policeman." Voice dropped to a private murmur, Hector has to stop and lift his brows in stark appreciation of Lachlan's balls. Nevermind the fact that he is probably about to lose them. As a result, self-correction comes on a short delay. "Woman. Person. Policeperson."

Mr. Hendrickson gives Lachlan's shoulder a /firm/ squeeze, gloved fingers digging into his shoulder, hand like a vice! He smiles down at Lachlan. "I'm sorry to hear that. Perhaps, in time, you will reconsider." He then releases his grip.

"I have /plenty/ of fun," Mara insists. "I 'ad a lo' of fun las' night." Her grin is forced. She heard what Lachlan said, and she'll curse him up and down for it later, if he doesn't die before she can admonish him.

The sudden pressure on his shoulder causes Lachlan to wince and tense up a bit. Owowowowowow. Ow. Ow. His grin becomes more of a grimace, but it doesn't fade. When he's released, he steps away from his pole and lifts his uninjured hand to rub at his poor abused flesh as best he can. "Yeah, an' mebbe ye'll shave yer head an' start callin' yerself Moby Dick," he growls.

Hector chuckles again, lowly this time. "I hope you're hiding a dustpan in your trousers. You're going to need it to collect all of the pieces."

Mr. Hendrickson smirks slightly, and does not respond. He turns, and walks calmly back to his seat, taking his newspaper out from under his arm and re-opening it to the comics section. It's the only good bit of the newspaper these days.

"He had better not want to file charges," Mara grumbles as she slips past Hector on her way toward Lachlan. "All righ'?" It's sort of spoken as a greeting, rather than an expression of actually caring.

When Hendrickson moves off, Lachlan watches him with a haughty sort of smirk, which fades into a glare. He brushes his hand under his nose with a soft sniff of contempt before stepping up to the pole he abandoned previously. He doesn't look at Mara until she speaks, and then he adopts a pleasant grin. "'M a'righ'," he responds with a small nod, meaning it as much as a greeting as an indication that he is totally badass because he stood up to the giant without flinching (much). "'M better now tha' ye've come over here, though." Gringrin.

"Sooner or later," says Hector, who moves to allow Mara clear passage without further elaboration. Mr. Hendrickson gets a polite half-smile. Hello! He does not know this woman, or the Scottish man. Entirely innocent, here.

Mr. Hendrickson glances up at Hector, and half-smiles in return, giving him a polite nod, but nothing more. His metal teeth glint in the light of the subway car. He folds his paper neatly, before reaching into his coat for a small black book. He also pulls a pen from inside his coat, and jots something down, before returning the pen and book to a pocket inside his coat. Appointment, perhaps?

"Charming," Mara says quietly with a grin, leaning in and for all the world appearing to be whispering sweet nothings into his ear. But what she's really saying is, "If tha' behemoth doesn' ge' off at the next stop, you and I are. Understand me?"

The nearness, the whispering, and the offer all work to make Lachlan's grin even /bigger/, though his eyes are now locked on something across the car. "'M I under arrest?" he inquires impishly in a whisper not unlike Mara's own. "Ye can slap some cuffs on me, if ye like." He obviously means the kinky, purple, fuzzy kind. In a more serious tone, he adds, "I need a doctor fer m'hand, an' the next stop's nowhere near the office."

Hector's eyes cannot help but go to the glitter of metal teeth, though he does have more sense than to stare. Suspicions confirmed, he rolls his eyes at the whispering and lifts his left wrist to check the watch that rattles there.

Mr. Hendrickson continues to pay no attention to the cop-lady and Lach, and pays no mind to the creepy guy standing in front of him, either. He simply peruses his paper, waiting for the train to come to a halt. Whenever /that/ would be.

"You're going to need a bloody coroner if you don't get the hell off this damn train," Mara warns in that whisper. She traces a finger down Lachlan's arm, to keep up appearances. "I'll call you a cab once we get topside." There's a brief moment of silence before she grins wider and muses against his ear, "I prefer citizen's arrest." I wear the silver bracelets, mister.

Up go Lachlan's eyebrows and the corners of his lips. "/Do/ ye now?" he practically purrs. "Tha's righ' bloody fine with me." The answer is ambiguous; he'll accept the cab and the responsibility of citizen's arrest! Even as he speaks, the train begins to slow as it approaches the next stop, and he glances towards Hendrickson again. See, acting like an asshole toward large men who intend to kill you wins the ladies.

Dissatisfied with whatever time it happens to be, Hector goes back to eying Lachlan and Mara, if somewhat less intently (read: creepily) than before. Now that the brakes are sliding into action, he has other things to consider. Places to go, parking spaces to remember.

Mr. Hendrickson begins to fold up his paper and tuck it into the over-large pocket of his overcoat, before straightening out his gloves and standing up, preparing to depart at this next stop. He casts one more glance at Lachlan before setting his sights on the subway doors, simply waiting.

"Looks like you won't be needing me to look out for you after all." Mara pulls away and takes a step back toward the door. "Get that hand taken care of." He'll surely discover later the business card slipped into his pocket, with a cell phone number scribbled on the back in purple ink.

Awww, what a shame. Lachlan does pout a little when Hendrickson stands and /apparently/ prepares for departure. And here he was looking forward to that cab. Sigh. The Scotsman is soon smirking again as Mara moves off, and he winks. "Mebbe I'll run inta ye again sometime," he remarks. She's a police officer, he's a small-time drug dealer. It's bound to happen at some point. This is, of course, said without the knowledge of the card in his pocket.

More anxious to depart than he was to board, Hector moves for the door the moment the train grinds to a halt. Lachlan gets the slightest of smirks in passing as he goes. It is a very distinct sort of, "You are so in for it," look. And then the doors creak open, and he is on his way.

Mr. Hendrickson adjusts his coat a moment before stepping off the subway train, ducking down to avoid banging his head on the doorway. Places to be, people to intimidate and extort.

Mara casts one more look over her shoulder to Lachlan before she slips off the train to follow Hendrickson discretely for a block or two.

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