M.S.R.P. II

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PostPosted: Sun Apr 23, 2006 5:49 pm 
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I watched the smoke curl above his head. His forehead was puckered in thought. He was onto me, but that was no reason to stop playing along. The cabbie was watching us carefully. I wondered whether it was worth being on the square with this guy. Probably not. "I'm on my way to the farmhouse over near Idle Wood. I'm a lawyer; name's Fraser." I held out my hand to Flynn.

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PostPosted: Wed Apr 26, 2006 10:11 pm 
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Parker shook the hand lightly, then flicked the cigarette to the ground and stomped it out, wondering what to do.

If it wasn't for the cabbie, he'd of tried to kill this Fraser already and have been done with it. Maybe send a message to the Outfit--or whoever it was that sent the tail--to back off. Parker shook his head, disgusted with the way he'd played things in New York. He should've killed Werner, the Outfit captain who'd likely have setup the double-cross in the subway, and then work his way up to the top guy and take him out, as well.

No use thinking about it now. That was over. "Alright," he said, turning, "Let's go." Parker began to walk back to the cab.

[OOC: Sorry to keep you waiting so long, I mean, really, I am...]

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PostPosted: Thu Apr 27, 2006 7:51 am 
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Oh crap. I had no choice. I had boxed myself into a corner with the sightless innocence of a child, to say the least. Although, I figured that a child would probably have seen this coming before I had. I began to follow him, my legs feeling like jello beneath me. However, I had a trick up my sleeve. I reached into my jacket and pulled out my wallet. Flynn looked round at me as I flicked through the various business cards I had accumulated over the years. I found the one I wanted and pulled it out. On it, in black ink, was printed 'James Fraser, Attorney-at-Law' I had nabbed it from a lawyer's office last year, while waiting for Mr Fraser to return from his lunch break. I had used it once or twice before now, but this was the time I was most grateful. "Here's my card," I said, holding the square piece of paper out to him, my best lawyer smile plastered across my face.

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PostPosted: Sun Apr 30, 2006 2:25 pm 
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Parker frowned at the card and picked it out of Bansfield's hand, looked at the front briefly, and nodded, slipping it into his suit pocket. He said, "Alright." And began to walk to the cab again, wondering what to do now.

It looked as though he had four choices. He could run off into the fields and steal some farmer's truck after knocking this Fraser out, he could kill both the cabbie and Fraser, and make off with the cab...but that should be scrapped, because Parker still wasn't sure if Fraser was an Outfit gunsel or just a lawyer on his way to Idlewild.

Third, he could break some of the lawyer's fingers and find out where he's from. But then, the cabbie might drive off with Parker's money in the back, so no dice.

And fourth...the fourth was that he could this lawyer where he needed to go, then get himself dropped off where he was going.

Parker lit a cigarette and decided. He slid into the backseat of the cab as the cabbie said, "Ey', two fares now? The fuck is this?" Parker flicked some cigarette ash at the man and said, "Shut up. Drive. Sit where you like, Fraser."

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PostPosted: Mon May 01, 2006 12:09 pm 
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I could hear my heart in my ears. The card seemed to have pacified the bruno, and he was still my mark so I couldn't afford to lose him now. I tried to smile again, faintly. I slid over to the far right of the back bench of the vehicle and folded my hands together. Over the crescent of the slight hill ahead was the red-tiled roof of the Idle Wood Farmhouse. There was about five acres of scrubby field surrounding it, dotted with scrawny animals. I big car was parked in front of the brown-brick, old fashioned house, in a churned up scrap of driveway. A tiny dot of a person was washing down the bodywork. I strained my eyes through the windshield trying to make out something else, but it was nearly two miles away. I felt the stony silence was rather oppressive, so I said apologetically: "I'm sorry to bother you like this, friend. It's only a couple of miles down the road, but this is a new suit. I kinda need this job, so I wanna make a good impression."

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PostPosted: Fri May 12, 2006 12:39 pm 
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Parker nodded as the cabbie, a short stubby farmer looking guy, turned on the radio. The music that came out of it was some form of jazz coupled with a banjo. Parker listened for a minute, then grimaced and tapped the cabbie on the back of the head with the knuckles of his right hand, saying, "Turn it off, I don't wanna' hear it." The cabbie turned, about to say something, but then he saw Parker's eyes and shut up. He turned the radio off. Parker flicked his cigarette out the window and lit a new one, dragging deep, and then he turned to the man he knew as Fraser and said, "What're you doing in Idlewild, Fraser?"

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PostPosted: Fri May 12, 2006 6:46 pm 
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"Land dispute. You know what these hicks are like. The farmer wants cash out of a fellow who he thinks built a warehouse on his great-great grandpappy's land, somethin' like that, y'know?" I sighed heavily and rubbed my hair with my open palm. "There's nothing in it, of course, but he's paying for it." A cloud of tobacco smoke was released steadily into my face, and I got the distinct impression I was being intimidated. I twisted my hat between my hands as they hung loose at my knees, and kept my eyes low. The smoke drew tears to my eyes, and I dabbed at them with a fingertip. I turned to look out the window and watched my breath steam the glass and cloud my morose reflection.

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PostPosted: Fri May 12, 2006 7:02 pm 
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Silence filled the cab for a few minutes as the car passed through the dreary landscape. As Parker smoked his Lucky Strikes, he began to think about Lucille, about the Outfit trouble in New York. That dumb bitch had caused him a lot of hassle, her and Val, but that was over now. She was dead, anyway, so there was no reason to dwell on her.

Parker hadn't killed her, she'd killed herself. He couldn't of killed her, because he loved her...during his stint on the prison farm out in California, he'd imagine slitting her nostrils and popping her eyes and stomping her half to death, but he never imagined her dead. Then he'd killed that guard, escaped, vagged it across the country like some hobo in a W.C. Burnett novel, and had gone to her apartment. When he came in, she tried to stab him, so Parker had punched her in the stomach and had carried her to her room. She slit her own throat that night, in her bathroom, with a piece of broken mirror. Parker took her to Harlem, dropped her off in a stolen car, and as far he knew she was still there.

He'd loved her and he'd hated her, and he'd never felt either emotion for anyone in his entire life. He hadn't hated Val. He'd disliked Val, but there hadn't been hate. That was a score to settle.

Parker flicked the second cigarette out the window and turned to Fraser, looking at the guy. He didn't look like a hood, or act like one. Most mob guys Parker had met weren't smart enough or tactful enough to pull a charade like this--if it was, in fact, a charade--for this long. Most would've gone for the gorilla tactic by now, or have just run off. Parker wondered if there was a way to find out who this guy was.

Maybe mention a name, he thought. Try to rattle him. Parker, lighting a new cigarette, said, "You ever work for anybody in New York, Fraser? I'm only askin' because I think I heard a guy over there mention you once, somebody named Bronson." Bronson was the Outfit head, for the moment, the boss of the New York branch. He waited to see if the name had any effect on Fraser, and if it didn't, well, he'd have to check the guy out later on.

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PostPosted: Sat May 13, 2006 1:31 pm 
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"Never heard of him, friend. Worked over in Brooklyn once, for the DA, when it was Reg Harvald."
I could see Reg Harvald now. He was a sweaty little mucker with a narrow brow and an impatient look stamped over his less-than hunky features. We had not got along too well on the two occasions we had met. The first was just before I got fired from Homicide. We had had a heated discussion outside his office which ended with him throwing a paper cone of water over me, and me backhanding him over the mouth. That was when I got fired...

Either way, he had been appointed over in Brooklyn a few years back. The second and final time we met had been when I was in hoosegow on an overnight stop a few years back. Sticking to client confidentiality had landed me in the lock-up for the night, and he asked to see me personally. One eager look at me and he called in the wrecking crew to take me downstairs to the delightful little room every police station has where the walls are nice and thick. The cons have a joke: the room is so soundproof, you can bearly hear yourself scream.

Flynn was still looking at me intently. My face was
placid and blank, but sweat was coursing down the ridge of my spine and my palms were clammy and cold. I rubbed them along my hat brim. Flynn must have smoked half a pack since I'd first seen him and he wasn't slowing down. I got my pipe out and put it between my teeth. I thought about lighting it, but decided not to. I chewed on the stem and looked at the road ahead.

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