2010-07-18: The Recruitment Job



Date: July 18, 2010


This team is spelled with a V.

"The Recruitment Job"


Previously, on Leverage…

Stanford is sitting in front of his Wall of Screens, peering at random images and security footage from the MoMa. He chews on Gummi Frog after Gummi Frog as he watches two different sets of footage.
Both frames come to a halt with a *DING!* that has Stanny looking up and narrowing his focus on the highlighted faces. "Ladies and Gents, looks like we got ourselves a winner!"

Stanford spins around to his laptop and starts punching through keys and the face is run through some high end software that just doesn't belong on civilian computers.The moment it locks on a dossier… red flags start popping up on his screen too. Literally.

"… Houston, we got a big ass problem."


The Shopping District tends to be one of the more crowded areas, which happens to be one this particularly homeless guy's mind. Crowded areas at dusk are the best times to not end up dead for doing something that could be considered extremely stupid.

Tiny Cyrus stumbles back and forth in front of the window of one of the more dangerously expensive stores for the female gender.The dirtiest part of this homeless guy's attire are his clothes, as what can be seen of his chocolate skin doesn't seem to be too dirty. But maybe someone let him use their shower! Whatever!

To anyone with a good eye, though, they might be able to notice that his stumbling is more rehearsed than actually drunk, since he does seem to keep his eyes focused on a particular figure in the store.

With not enough money to actually spend in the store, Vasha simply peruses the merchandise and fingers the fabrics as she drifts aimlessly through. She's either very good at ignoring the homeless man outside or she hasn't seen him, given the reaction of the women within her immediate vicinity, it's safe to assume the former.

When a call to the police is mentioned, Vasha's hazel eyes drift toward the window where she meets homeless man's. She narrows her eyes just slightly as she studies him, if he's familiar it doesn't show. Slowly, she pivots on one heel and strides confidently out of the establishment and pauses a foot away from the vagrant.

"They are telephoning the police, for you," she intones in a rather haughty manner. Her chin raises just slightly to allow the tall woman to look down her nose at the bum with an unappreciative sneer.

"What?! They what?!" Tiny Cyrus just keeps on wobbling, even though the person he's been paying the closet attention to is not outside the store and on his own personal turf. "They callin' the PO-LICE on me?! Girl, I'm Tiny Cyrus! Adopted brother of good ol' Billy Ray! I don't go to jail!"
The wobbling and stumbling has Tiny practically falling at Vasha's arms, to see if he can get close enough that he may be able to let the less accented and more seriously whispered tone come across.

"I know what you did four summers ago. If you want it to stay between us, I need ten minutes of your time."

A long breath is drawn inward as she slides to the side to narrowly avoid a collision with the drunkard. Then the whisper and her eyes fly open, jaw tenses, and teeth grit. One nod is all the man gets in response to his polite request. Pulling a set of keys from her purse she pushes a button and a black sportscar parked along the sidewalk springs to life.

There's no invitation extended to him, merely expectation that he will follow. She says not a word, nothing until they are both in the car and she's pulled away from the curb.

The speeds she drives at are closed to reckless, the stick shifts easily under her hand and she avoids red lights simply by pressing the gas.

"Now, tell me, what is it that you wish to talk about? I will assume it must be a little more important than my escapades of a few summers ago?" Her voice is cool, collected and unmistakably amused.

Tiny follows very closely, except that he's paying too much attention to getting himself out of the heavy coat he's wearing, which reveals normal clothes underneath and a small backpack. He also flings the stupid homeless hat off in a random direction and is in the vehicle with Vasha fast enough for no one to notice. Hopefully.

"There was a painting stolen from the MoMA, recently. You were there." As he speaks, Stanford pulls out his laptop and flips it open. Within moments, the security footage is rolling. "There was a robbery of fail, even more recently. You were there too." He grins, switching to the footage of that night. "Coincidence? As anybody from Harlem would say… HELL NAW!"
Stanford just shrugs a bit, not really wanting to make too much of an enemy at this particular moment. "I wanna' know why. What's your connection to all this?"

A downshift causes the car to jerk and the two occupants inside to teeter just a bit before she presses on the gas, letting the engine roar down the street. The car is nothing like its eco friendly neighbors, it's a caged animal waiting to escape.

"I was… Perhaps you believe that I have taken the painting? If you do, you would be wrong. Quite wrong." Her jaw tenses and releases a little, clearly painting the frustration within the woman. "This robbery of fail that you speak of, you mean the hostage taking? Heh…" Her small laugh betrays no joy. "It was a failure, I was going to procure a nice statue. Were it not for the little brunette that was tailing me like a dog."

"I don't think you stole it. But I do think you might be able to help me get it back." Stanford is clicking another button, making sure that the screen changes to something more important: Vasha's File. "I've done my homework. You're good at… whatever it is that you do. And these two knuckleheads? They got screwed over. Big time." Stanford shrugs a bit. "And I'm gonna' help 'em get outta' this mess." There, that's why he's here. Better get that out into the open, so she doesn't take him somewhere to dump his body. "The brunette was alright. I liked that one blonde though. Well, both of 'em were pretty hot. Mmmm." Flashback!

The car slips into a parking spot and Vasha kills the engine. "Get it back… very well, let us assume that I wish to help you retrieve this painting, what is it that I will receive as compensation? I do not work for free." The corner of her lips raise a little as he makes mention of the other women, minus two. Drumming her fingers against the steering wheel, she turns her head slowly to look at the computer screen. "The Picasso was a rarity, never unveiled to the public. I would like a percentage of its worth."

"The painting's not being sold. It's going to their sister. It's their painting." Stanford doesn't seem like he's going to budge on that particular part. "However, the man that's behind this whole thing? He just happens to be the curator of the museum. I'm sure that while we take this guy to the cleaners, that we'll be able to find an… alternate revenue stream in which to pay you for your services." There's so more typing and then the laptop is spun around for Vasha to see both Walsh's Account(s) Information as well as the MoMA Inventory list.

Stanford is treated to a rare smile from the woman and she holds her right hand across the span between them. "Very well, your proposal is accepted…" She pauses, searching for a name perhaps. "If you should find a use for my talents they are yours for fair share of the price on your computer screen." She points toward the number at the bottom of the spreadsheet. The MoMA inventory list is eyed for a little while, her eyes roving over a few of the more interesting pieces. "Shall I assume that you know how to contact me when you have an assignment?"

"Well, duh. But I've got something special cooked up for this here assignment." Stanford reaches into his pocket and comes out with a small earbud. It's held out between two fingers towards the woman. "I made these myself. Just pop it in and you can hear me, I can hear you. It works off the vibrations in your jaw…" Realizing that he may be preaching to someone that probably doesn't give a crap, he just kind of waves off the rest of the explanation. "Anyway. It's a Stanford original. Our own personal frequency."

Taking the earbud between her fingers, Vasha fits it into her ear and then looks at Stanford as he gives the story behind the piece of equipment. Her eyes begin to glazing over thing that sometimes happsn to people during a particularly engaging C-Span program, then he stops. Almost imediately the light of angels cast their smiling light down on her, metaphorically. "And what should I call you then? Stanford? That is your name?" A relatively obvious assumption, the man in the passenger seat doesn't seem to be the sort to rely on others for equipment.

"Got it in one, cutie." That's right. Stanford is getting his flirt on. He starts shoving his laptop in his backpack. "Great. Now that business is out of the way, what say we get some dinner? On you?" Oh lord. This may not end well for the hacker.

"I am afraid not," Is Vasha's all too quick reply to Stanford's invitation. Leaning over even further, she reaches to the handle on the passenger door and opens it for him. "I do not have dinner with men who carry backpacks. Toward that end, school boys, bicycle messengers, people who engage in camping expeditions, soldiers, and Gwen Stefani's Harajuku girls are off of my list of people to engage in anything romantic."

"Damn. That's cold, Sis. Vanilla Ice." Stanford shrugs and offers a smile, before falling backwards and twisting himself out of the vehicle. He adjusts his backpack and reaches up to stroke at his goatee, looking around to see just where in the hell he ended up. "I knew I shoudla' brought my metro card. Dammit."

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