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bound_herb (bound_herb) wrote in bound_rp, @ 2014-03-14 10:21:00

Eyes on the prize
Date: March 14, 2013
Time: 7:03pm
Location: Walton's Bar, Docklands
Characters: Herb Jackson, Roman Bennett
Description: Roman has an itch, Herb has the scratch. For a price.
Status: Private, complete.

"The thing is, treacle, there ain't much to be done about them fae," Herb said in his trademark matter-of-fact pitch voice, taking a moment to flick the ash off his cigarette before he bent down over the pool table, lining up the cue with the ball. He liked the Docklands bars. They were seedy enough to appeal to that side of his character, cheap in terms of watery booze that would still get you halfway to Shanghai sharpish, and they provided a steady stream of marks customers that would come to him. All he had to do was make sure he was in roughly the same places at the same time, and the business trickled in.

But most important, they let him smoke. All except that miserable cow at the Blue Lady.

He particularly liked Walton's. It had the air of spit and sawdust about it that he found enjoyable, the marks of one-too-many barfights scratched on the floor and walls, which seemed to have been given a resentful lick of paint sometime back in the Seventies, and not bothered with since. The nuts probably didn't have too much urine content, and the glasses were generally clean.

Not, in short, the kind of place you'd expect to see the young witch currently watching him line up his shot. But stranger things happen at sea - not that Herb would know, of course. Him and boats had never gotten along famously, despite his frequent claim that he was "just off the boat." He'd been in Crescent Cove with his brother Ernest for a good few months now, and had somehow both managed to evade the curious affections of the law, and establish a reputation as a Guy Who Could Get Things. As long as you didn't mind a little rough around the edges.

He glanced up at Roman from where his cheek was nearly touching the felt, and winked.

"That is, unless you know a few tricks of the trade," he smirked, before keeping his eye on her as he struck the ball. It careened wildly away from its intended target, sinking neatly into the corner pocket with a dull thud, Herb having stuffed a towel down it an hour before to stop the mechanisms from seizing them.

"Bollocks," he muttered, standing back up. His partner grinned, before picking the ball out and resetting it back on the line, eyeing the stack of bills they'd wagered on the outcome. Undeterred, Herb turned his attention back to Roman.

"Lucky for you, Herbert P. Jackson has the honour of being able to assist you," he said, with a small, theatrical flourish, having started to get into the act a while back now. "I've happened to learn, along my many travels, that fae are utterly incapable of being around tin. But uh," he added hastily. "Charmed tin. I might have a little piece I'd be able to sell you." He waggled his eyebrow salaciously, grinning broadly as he took a sip of his beer. "For a kiss on the cheek from a pretty lady. And 200 dollars."