ArchivedLogs:Knife in the Dark

Knife in the Dark
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Lucien
In Absentia	2013-07-20 Murphy meets Lucien's mom. WARNING: Some violence, graphic threats, full of terrible people being very terrible. (The phone call is concurrent with Lucien's Lofts visit.)
Location Queens
It's a run-down building in a run-down neighborhood, although slightly /less/ of a shithole than the one they were in before the fire, at least. Small saving grace. It still has more than its fair share of cockroaches, more than its fair share of angry shouting matches coming from the various apartments throughout the day. There's no bullet holes in the door, at least, the windows are largely all intact. Inside it's fairly sweltering-hot, even with every window open and a trio of fans whirring in the living room. The place smells heavily of cigarette smoke; there's half-eaten Chinese takeout on the rickety coffee table in front of the old thrift-store couch. Beer cans. Some magazines. The television is on, watching someone arguing futilely on People's Court; in front of it, on the couch, a woman is draped, droopy-lazy in the heat. Late thirties, maybe, maybe early forties; it's hard to tell, time has not been /kind/ to her skinny frame, haggard eyes, though somewhere beneath it she was likely quite attractive once. She doesn't seem to be /really/ very engaged with her TV watching. Just lounging. Cigarette held lazily in long fingers. Whump, whump, whump. That's the sound of a fist making rough contact with her front door, rapping with a steady rhythm. The man standing on the other side looks a little rough, a little haggard -- but he's dressed sharply. Dark wool coat; white shirt, black tie. Freshly shaved. Expensive work-boots. Murphy Law is not usually a patient man. But he finds it when he's on the clock. He'll keep knocking until she answers; if she doesn't, he'll open his mouth and start talking: "Ms. Tessier? Child Protective Services. We need to talk." Look, he's even got a shitty fake badge that he's holding up to the tiny peephole. Murphy's other hand is notably currently still lingering inside of his coat. It takes a moment for the woman to rouse herself. Eventually she answers the door, in cutoff shorts, rubber flip-flops, an oversized man's plaid button-down. Cigarette still in hand as she frowns out the crack in the door -- the security chain is still in place -- at Murphy. "I just had one of you." Her accent is thicker than Lucien's. "Yeah, there's an incongruency on the report. Just need you to clarify something," Murphy says, and now that badge is disappearing into his coat, as the other hand moves out -- as if he were withdrawing the very paperwork at this very moment. Except it ain't paperwork Murphy's pulling. It's a ranged taser -- short range, but close enough -- shoved torward into that crack, firing with a steady CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK -- as the two barbed hooks launch forward for her chest. His steel-tipped boot shoving forward to slam into place and keep that crack open; his other hand pulling out the can of compressed air. "-- what the fff." The cigarette falls to the ground; Elie is soon to /follow/ thudding down with a choked-strangled noise. "--uck," might be finishing her thought or might just be spluttering in pain as she twitchjerks behind the door. "Ghhhh -- ggh. You're -- ggh." FFFWWWWT. The can of compressed air is tilted at a sharp angle, spraying one of the links of the chain with a steady burst of liquidized difluoroethane; its sudden expansion causes a rapid loss of energy resulting in a web of frost crawling across the link. Murphy keeps it up for a solid 15 seconds -- counting back silently, even as his other hand works the trigger for the taser, keeping that flow of electricity on her as long as its batteries can manage. When he's reached zero, Murphy releases the taser -- steps back -- and puts his hands up against the opposite wall. WHUMP. WHUMP. *CRKT!* -- three donkey kicks are all it takes to snap the weakened link of that chain. And then he's stepping in, the taser expended. "/Gghh/," says Elie again, not much for conversation at the moment. Just some twitching, and a rather /hateful/ look given to Murphy. The door thuds against her leg when it is kicked open. Her twitching continues even slightly after Murphy releases the taser. But slowly subsides. Her hateful look does not. "-- the fuck," comes again, though she doesn't move. "Don't. Have money." At the utterance of words, Murphy delivers a steel-toed KICK straight for Elie's stomach. It's not as hard as he can manage; more of a solid /poke/ than a genuine slam. Enough to knock the wind out of her, anyway. Then he's casually stepping over her, as if he were picking his way through garbage -- taser placed back in his coat. Along with the can of compressed air. Murphy pulls out a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and starts rooting around the area for anything that looks like a package -- an urn -- something you'd put ashes in. FLINK FLINK FLINK goes the lighter as he searches. Elie curls in, body crumpling in around that kick with a unhappy groan. "The fuck what the fuck," she is groaning, half-mumbled under her breath. "What the fuck what the fuck," it's quiet, edging towards a sob now though this might be as much /fear/ as pain as she eyes Murphy scouring the room. "-- do you want. Don't. Have money I don't. Don't owe -- don't --" Though now she seems to be considering this with even more nervousness. "-- said I'd pay. Soon." The room is kind of a cluttered mess, really. Old magazines, old food containers, old dishes. Some blankets, a backpack, some matchbox cars. Boxes in plenty, largely -- still /unpacked/ from months-prior move, both here and in the equally cluttered kitchen; two of the three bedrooms stand closed though a third is open. The third is bare of -- much of anything! Neat in contrast to the rest of the mess. Another backpack, a few books on a table, a mattress on the floor, clothes (teenage-girl feminine) neatly put away in the closet. If the sobbing bothers Murphy, he shows no sign of it; the FLINK FLINK of the lighter continues as he shuffles through the house, performing a cursory scan. Occasionally kicking -- or shoving -- objects aside, sending them tumbling to the floor as he investigates. Rummaging. Once he's got the cigarette good and burning, he pauses at that last room -- as if mulling the chances it might be in there. Somehow, the sight of a neat and orderly room in the midst of all of this chaos wards him off in a way nothing else has. Instead of rooting, he turns -- moving back toward Elie, on the floor. Exhaling smoke from his nostrils, blossoming into a lazy cloud of smoke. "Soon," he replies to Elie's terrified sobs, "ain't comin' soon enough." He crouches down beside her; reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a switch blade, closed. "Heard your son croaked," he tells her, his tone soft but cold. Murphy fits into the role of a debt collector like it's a well-worn glove. "Rich fuck I work for, got a thing for corpse ashes. Real fucked up; mixes 'em into his take. Thinks it gives him a better high. Thinks he's snortin' the souls of the dead." Murphy's lips part into something that /should/ be a grin, but manages only to bare teeth. "Pays a lot for weird shit like that. You got your boy's ashes? I'll take 'em instead, come back next week for the money." He pauses, before opening the switchblade with a *CLNKT* and adding: "Otherwise? Gonna have to cut you. Make you ugly. Your call, sugar." "{Oh my God oh my God,}" Elie's edging-towards-sob has shifted into actual-sobs, when that switchblade comes out. "What -- what the -- /Matthieu/, what I -- how can you --" She sniffs harder, curls in closer into a ball. "-- how much," is her next question, watching the switchblade with huge watery green eyes. "I don't. I didn't, my daughter. Took. I could ask. {Oh god} please don't --" Murphy's eyes narrow at Elie's mention of her daughter. A slow, heavy sigh soon comes. "--alright." And then he's putting the switchblade back in with a slow *click*. And: "Stay here. On the floor. You move more than a foot, I'll slit open your left eye." He straightens up, then. Nudging her door closed with a click. And then he's picking his way through the garbage, toward the neat and tidy room. Even as, with the other hand, he's fishing out his cell-phone. Dialing. Lucien's number. Lucien answers the phone after a moment. He sounds very faintly distracted, though his tone is polite: "-- Salut?" Elie's sobs continue in the background, which, after a moment, draws a slightly less distracted: "-- What is going on?" Elie -- does not move! She watches Murphy disappear with the switchblade towards Desiree's room, trembling. Still sniffling. Murphy's voice is suddenly softer; just a rough whisper that scarcely emerges from Desiree's room. "S'me. I'm at her apartment, right now. Says the ashes are in her daughter's room." A pause, before: "I'm not ransackin' some little kid's room. She's had enough shit. Can you call her -- find out where they're at? You can promise her she'll get them back." "-- She's sixteen," Lucien answers blandly, as if /this/ is the relevant part of the conversation. "Murphy, there is hardly anything /in/ that room, how much ransacking could you need to do? Did you try the closet?" "Enngh," Murphy responds, as if Lucien is suggesting he slice off his own finger. "One second." He pauses, popping his head out long enough to glance at Elie: "You ain't moved, right, sugar?" He turns back into the room -- and, very slowly, eyebrows rammed together -- reaches for the closet. Opening it. "Feels creepy," Murphy informs Lucien over the phone as he searches. His voice drops to a whisper again: "Make sure she knows it'll be brought back. The lady thinks I'm a debt collector; fed her some BS about sellin' ashes to weird rich fucks." "-- I'm sure I could find a buyer," Lucien says very dryly, "People have all /kinds/ of tastes. It is creepy," he adds, mildly. And then a long pause, before he adds, somewhat softer: "-- But I would not. Care to trouble her with this. Just now. She -- is enjoying her day." The closet is full of clothes, mostly! Neatly organized by type and by /colour/. There is a hanging shoe holder draped over the inside of the door, a rack of shelves tucked away on the back wall behind all the hanging clothes. Textbooks, smuggled back they're like they're a /secret/. A laptop, also hidden away beneath some folded towels. A large organizer-box full of beads and wire and findings for jewelrymaking. Another box, plain cardboard, small, on the floor beneath the shelves; this holds -- miscellany. A copy of /Neverwhere/. A pair of ticket stubs for /Newsies/. A rolled-up portable chess matt with pieces in a cloth bag. A scraggly-squishy grey giant microbe plushie. A smaller box! Holding a rather nondescript urn inside. "...yeah, alright," Murphy agrees with Lucien's assessment, phone cradled against his shoulder. "Just -- this shit matters to some people." He crouches down, now, shifting through Desiree's items; he is very /careful/ -- and luckily, possesses a brain that allows him to memorize the position of every thing he finds -- and put it back pretty much exactly like he found it. Murphy sorts through the items -- the hidden laptop, the textbooks -- and then the box-within-a-box. "...wait. You actually give a /fuck/ about her?" Murphy sounds, well. A little surprised. Inspecting the urn. Opening it, to make sure there are actually ashes inside. The urn does in fact contain ashes! The question is answered with a /long/ stretch of silence. "-- She is my sister," Lucien answers at length, very levelly. "Yeah," Murphy responds, closing the urn with a clink, "so she is." He carefully goes about reassembling the items in the closet just like he found them, chewing on the end of that cigarette. Before, with a sudden striking calmness: "You got an alibi, Lucien?" There is another stretch of silence. "I am having dinner with friends," Lucien says mildly, "-- Jackson Holland, in fact. His partner is charming. Should we," there's a wry note of /humour/ in his voice here, "-- be having it in /public/?" "Depends. Can you keep the kids from coming back home tonight? And if so, can you come pay your mother a visit tomorrow? Before the kids come 'round. Just to check up on her. If so," Murphy tells him, "then yeah. Go. Be 'seen'." "Murphy, do you even know --" Lucien begins to ask, but apparently reconsiders this question. Instead, just a slow breath in. "The children can stay with me tonight. They often do. It is not -- always safe. There." "I know enough," Murphy responds, voice calm, "to know what I'm looking at. And I know how to fix it. But if this turns out to be a mistake? Well, I'm real good at fixing my mistakes, Tessier." Murphy pauses long enough to take a long drag of his cigarette; then: "I'm puttin' a lot of trust down, here. That whatever you are, you ain't /this/ fucked up. Am I right? Can trust you not to fuck this up worse?" "I was raised by her," Lucien gives in even answer. "I cannot imagine that should instill you with much confidence." The quiet around him in his pauses is not true quiet; it's city-quiet; cars driving somewhere nearby, a horn off in the distance, voices somewhere far below. The breath he draws in blends in with the soft whistle of breeze past his phone. "Whatever I am, Murphy," he is softer, here, still very level, "Those children will never have to --" Another silence. "It would be hard," he says instead wryly, "to fuck it up worse." Something about what Lucien says breaks Murphy's calm; there's a ragged, sharp inward breath -- but then it is released, slow and level. "...alright. Make sure you're the first one in. And Lucien? Don't ever say I never got you anything nice." Murphy hangs up. The phone slips into his pocket; he then steps out of Desiree's room, back into the hallway -- cradling the urn in his hand. "Good news, sugar," he announces. "Found the urn. So, looks like you get another week. Just stay down on the floor," Murphy continues, moving toward her -- hand drifting toward his switch-blade, "and I'll be on my way."