tampered | You see I've got this soul...

Entry tags:

You see I've got this soul...

When: Friday, August 2.
Rating: I dunno, maybe R for violence and language?
Characters: Jimmy Darmody and Isaak Sirko.
Summary: Jimmy thinks he has good ideas about extorting protection money from Isaak. Spoiler alert: he doesn't.
Log:

Jimmy's an opportunist. He knows that much about himself. He's also impulsive. That might be why, without a whole lot of forethought, he's decided to expand his criminal operations into something he knows a fair bit about -- protection schemes. And who better to try it out on than this Isaak guy, who's bar seems absolutely perfect for the taking. Sure, he doesn't know a whole lot about Isaak, but he doesn't strike him as much of a potential problem.

So when he swaggers into the bar one early Friday afternoon, he's not looking for there to be much of a fight, if any. He figures he'll just do what he's come here to do, make an offer, maybe make a couple threats, and get the hell out. Anything to get a little bit more money; his legitimate job is okay, but it doesn't provide him the kind of cash he wants, and the horse racing hasn't really gotten off the ground.

He looks around for Isaak, taking a casual seat at the bar, trying not to look suspicious. Sometimes his baby-face really comes in handy. This is probably one of those times. Of course, as soon as he opens his mouth, any pretensions to innocence are going to disappear. Oh well.

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Really, the only reason the bar's open so early is that Isaak likes having the option of hanging about it. It's a reasonably successful business venture, but terribly self-indulgent. Which means, when Jimmy comes in, the older man notices, solely because there's very little else to notice.

Of course, early drinkers are as welcome as anyone-- even unfamiliar ones. Isaak gives him a polite nod.

He nods back, and just as soon as he does, decides to abandon all pretensions of being here for a drink. "You're the owner, right?"

He knows full well Isaak's the owner. He's kept an eye on this place, although it isn't exactly the kind of venue he usually ends up in. It seems to do good business, but he thinks the security could use some tightening up. That's where he comes in. Kind of.

So much for friendly terms.

"Last I checked," he answers easily. His hackles aren't up in the slightest, which might seem promising, but really it isn't.

"How can I help you?"

"I thought we could have a conversation about your security."

Or lack thereof, he thinks silently -- and smugly -- to himself. He's far more well-spoken than most people might assume him to be, or perhaps it's accurate to say that he's more well-spoken when he's attending to business, even if that business involves threats. There's no reason to start with the threats just yet, but Isaak's probably a smart guy, if he's got a business running this well; he'll take the message.

Oh. Oh. Look close and you might catch the flicker of interest in his eyes. Now, isn't that cute. Perhaps he ought to have guessed someone would try this eventually; it's a bit of a compliment, really. He must look like he's doing well.

"Is that right?"

Looking at the situation objectively-- which is a talent of Isaak's, though sometimes it takes more effort than others-- he could see why he'd seem any easy mark. He's not a young man, after all, and young man tend to think of their elders as obsolete, without bothering to consider the benefits of experience. And of course, even here there's a certain stigma to his preferences; one with no merit, but it must be an easy mistake to make.

He leans in slightly, unperturbed, with a ghost of a not-quite-smile touching his lips.

"Perhaps we ought to continue this conversation in my office...?"

Jimmy knows better than to write someone off simply because they're older than he is; after all, the biggest threat in his life at home is a man who must be Isaak's age, if not older. On the other hand, he doesn't care. He's become even more reckless in the months that he'd been back home, although it had only been two days in the City. It's recklessness that drives him now. He has very little concern for his own safety.

He nods at Isaak's suggestion, not overeagerly, but obviously in agreement. Reckless as he may be, having this conversation in what could easily become public if anyone walks in doesn't seem like a good idea to him.

"Yeah. Let's talk in your office."

He stands and heads for the back, not bothered to look behind him. Certainly the young man's smart enough to follow him, and not stupid enough to try anything yet. There'd be no profit in that, after all.

He holds the door to usher Jimmy in so he can shut it behind them.

"Have a seat."

He takes a seat when offered, nodding slightly. There's something polite in Jimmy's bearing, even if he's here to make threats -- he's obviously been influenced by someone, maybe had an education that teaches him how to approach a business meeting, whether or not it's for legitimate reasons.

"I was thinkin'," he begins, relaxing into his seat, "You might need some protection, as far as security goes. Y'know, a place like this, it's pretty damn profitable, and a lot of people could start lookin' at it as an easy target."

Well, if he'd been rude about it he'd not have gotten this far. Call this nostalgia, perhaps. Equally self-indulgent. Perhaps he ought to be more concerned-- after all, it's likelier than not that this young man isn't alone in his endeavours-- but though Isaak is accustomed to having all the backup he could ever need, he rarely finds he needs it. That is a sort of hubris, perhaps, but habits die hard.

He takes his own comfortable spot across the desk, leaning with his forearms on the edge, smiling his wolf's smile. At home his name would be enough. Ah, but that's all nostalgia.

"We do well enough," he admits, intentionally missing the point, keeping his tone light. "I hope you're not looking for a position as a bouncer, as I've nothing to offer you."

"Yeah, I ain't interested in bein' a bouncer," he says. There's no use in prevaricating or pretending that he's here for any other reason. He's pretty sure Isaak is intentionally missing the point, and he can't decide whether that irritates or amuses him.

"I'm just sayin' that you might wanna consider payin' for some outside protection," he says, abandoning all pretense. "There're people out there--" or people currently in Isaak's office "-- who might be less likely to go after a place like that if you focused a little more on protectin' it. You wouldn't want anythin' to happen to your bar, would you?"

He leans forward slightly, too, not quite intimidating just yet, but making his point clear. Despite the obvious limp he'd had when he walked in, a limp Isaak had probably observed, he's not a weak guy. That's probably obvious, too.

Come now, there's never any fun if you rush it.

This, too, is familiar; Isaak has seen his share of recklessness. It gets young men killed. (There was a time when he would have found it unbearably tiresome, and Jimmy is perhaps fortunate that in his own odd way, Isaak has softened a bit. Not softened enough, perhaps, but it could have been so much worse.)

He's quiet for a long moment, impassive; long enough, he thinks, to make the pause an uncomfortable one, but not long enough to force the other man's hand. He lifts his chin slightly, and asks, curious:

"What's your name?"

He raises his chin a little in response, looking somewhere between stubborn and proud. The pause is an uncomfortable one, but to his credit, he doesn't necessarily make it obvious that he notices. "Jimmy."

There's no need for last names here -- although, of course, it wouldn't be hard to find it out, were Isaak so inclined -- but there's also no need to give a false name. Around here, things like that tend to come out. He's never been fond of false names, anyway. They're just another useless thing to remember, on top of all the other lies that're necessarily in his line of work.

At least he's respectable. Isaak has never cared for lies, though certainly he's told a few in his time; artful omission is more his style. Really, though, it hardly matters whether the young man is being truthful; it's only that it's quite difficult to carry on a friendly conversation in total anonomity.

"Well, Jimmy," he says evenly, "I'd say you're a fortunate young man."

"Oh yeah? Why would you say that?"

He's not at ease, exactly, but he thinks this is going pretty well. Better than things went back home, at least. Then again, most things in the City're better than they were at home. Maybe he's really going to get away with this. Maybe his recklessness will pay off. There's a part of him that doesn't really care one way or the other, but he squashes it down -- better not to show any kind of apathy, not in a situation like this.

Isaak's smile never wavers. He's been doing this long enough to know better than to give that sort of advance warning.

He strikes fast, leaning over the desk-- one of many advantages of being tall as he is-- to grab Jimmy by the wrist, pulling him up none too gently; not hard enough to force him to stand, just over the desk so Isaak doesn't have to stoop. His grasp is too tight to simply wiggle out of, though not (yet) painful.

"To start," he says conversationally, "you're lucky I'm in a forgiving mood."

He immediately tries to wrench his wrist away, but Isaak does have a tight grip, a tighter grip than he'd been expecting, although it doesn't hurt. He stares at him defiantly, though, never quite knowing to back down when it would be a wise idea.

"Oh yeah? And what'd you do if you weren't in a 'forgivin' mood'?"

That, perhaps, is a question better left unanswered. Isaak takes no particular pleasure in violence; the's a satisfaction to the effective use of any strategy, but he's not a sadist. He is, however, thorough; and he is not the least bit squeamish.

"You're also fortunate," he considers, ignoring the interruption, "to be in this City, where you're dealing only with me."

Calmly, he reaches out and bends back one of Jimmy's fingers. He doesn't draw it out. This is a simple enough lesson, not an extended torture session. (And really, if need be, the younger man does have nine more.). It's a quick, ruthless snap.

Jimmy's reaction is immediate, of course. He hadn't been expecting to have his finger broken, not quite so quickly, at least, and not quite so matter-of-factly, but the only way he can possibly response is to lash out, aiming a punch at Isaak's face, trying to wrench his wrist away again as he does.

"You son of a bitch!" he splutters, half-blindsided, half-infuriated.

Well, it's probably the appropriate reaction to having your finger broken. Isaak doesn't manage to block the punch-- he takes it like a champ, though the clench of his jaw after makes it clear it hurts. Enough to make him angry. Enough that he slams the wrist in his grasp down on the table, reaching for the other arm to pin both. He'd prefer not to have a repeat of that, thank you.

"If we were in Kiev I'd have already arranged to have everyone you've ever loved shot and left in the gutter like dogs," he practically spits, terse and clipped and wrathful.

"You think I haven't heard that kinda shit before? If we were in Atlantic City, you wouldn't've even tried to break my fuckin' finger."

Jimmy's defiant, because he has no other choice. He's not going to roll over and take it; his pride is involved, now, and that, combined with his recklessness and lack of concern about what happens to him, is a dangerous combination. Still, he sure as hell isn't interested in getting shot, so despite the fact that he tries to pull away, tries to go for his gun, he's not really planning on shooting Isaak. He just wants to get out of here.

"Better men than you have been buried."

He gives Jimmy's arms a sharp jerk to set him off balance, to keep him from trying for a gun (because Isaak doesn't want a dead man in his bar; he doesn't bother to consider the alternative. He doesn't think of himself as a man that can lose.)

This time he's angry, and when he goes for a second finger, he twists it.

"No shit. Most men're better than me."

He knows it. That's not just adrenaline or self-deprecation talking, and it's not an attempt to get out of what's happening to him right now. Isaak's got him held down pretty damn good, and there's no way of getting ahold of his gun, but that doesn't mean he has to beg for mercy. No, he's still trying to twist his arms out of Isaak's grip, barely able to stifle the groan of pain as Isaak snaps his second finger.

"You gonna keep doin' this till they're all broken?"

Under other circumstances, he might be charmed, honestly. Isaak has a soft spot for recklessness.

For now? His cheekbone still smarts. He snaps a third.

"I want to be certain we understand one another."

His tone has evened out again, but there's a deep note of menace there.

"Maybe when you stop fuckin' breakin' my fingers, I'll be able to answer that question."

Right now, all he can think about is how goddamned much it hurts, and how goddamned much he wants Isaak to stop. He does understand, understands far better than he had when he'd walked into here, that Isaak isn't someone to trifle with. That doesn't mean he's going to submit to him without a fight, even when the only fight he can give him is verbal.

That's not a terribly polite request, Jimmy. Fortunately, as Isaak has mentioned, he's in a forgiving mood, no matter how strained. He doesn't touch another finger, though he leans forward again, bringing his weight to bear on the young man's wrist.

"Needless to say, I will not be paying you for anything. And should anything unpleasant happen to the Wolf's Den, I shall have no choice but to hold you personally responsible."

"Yeah, I got that."

There's a pause, as he tries to hide the wince at the way Isaak is putting weight on his wrist, which sends spikes of pain shooting through his broken fingers, and then he speaks again. "Y'know, if somethin' does happen to this place, it ain't necessarily my fault. I don't have any interest in fuckin' with you again, believe me."

"Then for your sake, I hope no one tries anything."

He holds his position for a moment longer, meeting Jimmy's eyes, before he straightens and releases his grasp, clasping his hands loosely in front of him. Close enough to go for his gun, should the need arise. He's fairly sure Jimmy isn't that much of a fool. Not certain enough to be unprepared.

Jimmy meets his eyes, and nods slightly. He's reckless, and often makes terrible decisions, but he's not stupid enough to go for his own gun, not after seeing what Isaak's capable of. He's pretty sure Isaak has a gun of his own, and he doesn't want to risk it.

"Let's hope they don't," he agrees. There's an odd sense of respect in his voice, which might be strange, for someone who's just broken three of his fingers.

"Am I free to go?"

As far as Isaak is concerned, fostering a sense of respect was the entire point of the exercise. He lets his eyes drop, not cowed but visibly abandoning interest in the matter as he adjusts the position of a paperweight on his desk.

"Certainly, unless you intend to stay for a drink."

"No offense, but I don't think I'm gonna be hangin' around here much in the future."

And besides, he has to go home and figure out just how badly his fingers are broken, and what doctor he can possibly go to that won't ask a bunch of invasive questions. There's no way he's going to explain to anyone what happened, after all.

He stands, giving Isaak a slight nod, and, very slowly so as not to appear inadvertently threatening in any way, heads for the door.

"Suit yourself," he murmurs, and kindly chooses not to wink. Gloating is unbecoming, after all. He takes his seat, and watches Jimmy go, arms folded across his chest.

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You see I've got this soul...

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