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When her drink makes its way to the bar, the Timonae half-turns to pluck it from its place, lifting it in wordless salute to the insectoid before savoring that first sip. She follows it up with a prim clearing of the throat, one knuckle brought to her lips. | When her drink makes its way to the bar, the Timonae half-turns to pluck it from its place, lifting it in wordless salute to the insectoid before savoring that first sip. She follows it up with a prim clearing of the throat, one knuckle brought to her lips. | ||
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"'Once' is better than 'never,'" she concurs, apparently disinclined to probe into his business further. "Tell me, Captain Falkenberg. If I had the sort of hand which, if played properly, would make us both very wealthy individuals - what would you say?" | "'Once' is better than 'never,'" she concurs, apparently disinclined to probe into his business further. "Tell me, Captain Falkenberg. If I had the sort of hand which, if played properly, would make us both very wealthy individuals - what would you say?" | ||
Revision as of 02:01, 26 September 2011
The Motherlode - Freewheeling - <Tomin Kora>
Shadows cloak much of this tavern's interior, perhaps by design. Through the stinging cig smoke, you can make out the vague shapes - if not the specific features - of sentient beings of most every stripe from humanoid to reptiloid to insectoid, huddled around tables or hunched over the bar counter. Some sit alone, contemplating the darkness. Others talk business in urgent and occasionally panicked tones. The voices are muted beneath the wail of the jukebox.
Falkenberg is seated at the bar, a glass of scotch in front of him.
The voice comes from everywhere and yet nowhere at all. ~He's been watering it down,~ Kaxina tells the captain from her secluded spot just beyond the smoky haze of the barroom. ~Or she. Or it. I can never tell with Odarites. Irrelevant, I suppose. The creature will be yet another spatter of ichor the moment some thug catches him in the act.~
Falkenberg does not turn around. "You're making yourself awfully comfortable in my brain, doctor," he says, though his tone is slightly amused. He takes a sip of his drink. "Welcome back to the land of the free and the home of the heavily armed."
~I'd be more worried, were I you. My mother was a G'ahnli and my father a Nallistan.~ Dr. Nirali rises, shouldering her purse and straightening her jacket before crossing the barroom, ignoring the cat-call from a drunken human practically draped across the jukebox. ~I merely wanted to see if you would jump. You did not. That is good. They usually do.~ Her stride brings her up beside the rogue, and she favors him with a vulpine grin before turning her attention to the bartender. "Russkaya with a lime twist."
Falkenberg takes another sip of his drink. "I don't spook easily," he says. "It's the residual fighter jock in me. Cool in the saddle." Now he turns to regard the Timonae. "Thank you for your assistance on Earth. While I wasn't terribly concerned with being identified...I did have lunch with two police officers, a friendly chat with the acting chief of police, and a nice discussion about architecture and statuary with the district attorney...it still is nice to avoid having my picture associated with any ongoing investigations."
Dr. Nirali turns her back to the bar, elbows propped lazily upon its edge. "You are quite welcome. I was unfortunately unable to turn up the name of the darling little officer or her marine friend, I should regret to inform you," she returns. "She shot a photograph of your charming jarhead. I should expect that its ultimate destination is not 'hanging from her refrigerator.'"
Falkenberg shrugs. "That's all right," he says. "It makes him marginally less useful if they're watching him, but the point of the exercise was as much to make his life miserable as it was to make him useful." He pauses for a moment and swirls the remnants of scotch in his glass. "Still, I expect to be able to make use of him once. Probably only once."
When her drink makes its way to the bar, the Timonae half-turns to pluck it from its place, lifting it in wordless salute to the insectoid before savoring that first sip. She follows it up with a prim clearing of the throat, one knuckle brought to her lips.
"'Once' is better than 'never,'" she concurs, apparently disinclined to probe into his business further. "Tell me, Captain Falkenberg. If I had the sort of hand which, if played properly, would make us both very wealthy individuals - what would you say?"
"I would say show me your hand," Falkenberg says with a grin. "But," he quickly adds, turning serious, "I would not get involved with anything that might put me on the wrong side of Lord Fagin." He says that last bit in a slightly louder voice than he has been using to this point.
Kaxina shrugs one insouciant shoulder. "Nor would I," she notes blithely, pausing for another swallow of the evening's poison. "I daresay m'lord would be most intrigued. There is plenty to go around, should we all use our wits. You have wits, do you not?" A wry eyebrow arches over the rim of her glasses, one corner of her mouth just barely curving. "I can never tell with humans."
Falkenberg chuckles at that. "I guess you'll have to find out. What's the job?"
"A dead man," Dr. Nirali answers succinctly, producing a small datachip from her purse which she passes to the captain. "Have a look at that."
Should he comply, this is the information recorded:
- Apparent homicide of possible unknown alien species. Similarities to Castori. Body dumped in alley behind Lowe's Holocinema, San Angeles, Earth; found by usher, Evan Torres. Victim possessed a pendant of some significance.
- Officers on scene include Detective Iseul Koh and two unidentified SAPD, one male and one female; female present at Fred's Diner. DA Barrister also present. One Zangali coroner. One witness questioned - Edward Morgan Teach, male, human.
Falkenberg plugs the chip into his PDA and reads the information. "Fascinating," he says after a moment. "San Angeles has a Zangali coroner. Never would have guessed that."
The good doctor's smile is shades of wicked. "Is it not? I would not have pegged them for such precision work. More fool I," she chuffs amusedly, chasing the thought with another pull from her lowball.
Falkenberg chuckles again. "In all seriousness, doctor, how is it that this odd not-quite-Castori can make you, me, or anyone else rich?"
"Ah, now you are cutting to the heart of it," Dr. Nirali rhapsodizes, bosom rising and falling with a slow, theatrical sigh. Her mirth dims but does not disappear, a phantom ghosting features that have gradually descended into contemplation. "I asked a similar question. 'Will this not-quite-Castori make me rich?' The Lady responded in the affirmative. That is the trick of it, however, the how. Maza is in the details, darling. If you are interested? Mind you do not trip over her."
Falkenberg blinks once. Then twice. Then once more. "Let me see if I understand you," he says after a long pause. "The voices in your head told you the funny bear with make you rich, but neglected to tell you how?"
"I spent nearly thirty years in politics, captain," Kaxina ripostes in deadpan. "I am entitled to my madness."
Falkenberg sighs and tosses a few credits on the bar. "Well, doctor, I owe you for your help on Earth. So I suppose I'll help you in the pursuit of this elusive fortune. But I'm afraid we'll have to go over the details some other time. I need to turn in....I'm still on San Angeles time."
Long fingers cradle the tumbler as Kaxina folds her arms across her middle. "You have the details. You will have more when I do. Have faith, captain. There is a saying on New Valsho: One needs but two things to succeed in life. A flexible lover, and a flexible moral," she relates. "Darling, I have both. Do take care. Lady smile."