Who: Group 1 (Johnny, Max, Quinn, and Thomas) and the Penguin Pals What: Busting an Arms Deal Where: Pawn Shop in Rainier Valley, on Rainier Ave N When: 1 AM on Sunday, November 14 Warnings: PG-13 style violence, mentions of criminal activity, gunfire.
The hotel room in Jack Kersey's name was fairly small, without a single furnishing that could be considered luxury. Though there was nothing wrong with it per say, it held an eerie air. It was the sort of hotel room that could be written up in horror novels as the scene of a gruesome crime that would result in hauntings for decades to come. The bathtub had small chips in the sides, the ideal location for ghostly "blood" to ooze onto the floor and frighten good-looking blonde actresses with lulling careers. For some reason, the overhead light flickered every time someone passed beneath it. And the sink couldn't be turned on without emitting a low squeaking sound that was thankfully drowned out by the running water.
Sitting in one of the old chairs was a man dressed well above the class of the room that surrounded him. The chair was turned towards the window, back to the door, to allow him to stare intently at a small chickadee perched on a telephone wire that ran between his hotel window and the buildings on the other side of the street. As he stared, he puffed on a thick cigar that filled the small room with a thick, heady smoke. The smoke that hissed from his nostrils formed narrow streams that began to expand and curl through the air, rising to the ceiling only to disperse after the slow-moving collision.
After an indeterminate amount of time, the man straightened up in his seat. The chickadee was hopping from side to side, head canted towards the ground and then to the window he hid behind. With a foul smile, he pulled the cigar from his lips, dropping the ash into a provided tray as he reached into the breast of his jet black dinner jacket. The chickadee fluttered to the windowsill as he strode forward, reaching the window with a small bag of seed hefted in his palm. Opening the window just a crack, he spread the seed across the outside edge of the sill before closing the window again. He left the chickadee to devour her feast, taking another drag on his cigar as he strolled towards the door.
Before leaving, he paused in the bathroom, peering into the mirror critically. He smoothed a hand over his stomach, watching the brilliant white of his shirt disappear into his black trousers. Rebuttoning the jacket, he adjusted his black bow tie. Holding the cigar in his teeth, Owen Vogel gave his reflection an enormous grin.
"It's showtime." Pawn X-Press was a small, poorly lit pawn shop in Rainier Valley that saw a large customer base, a great many faces that appeared and disappeared without names. It was flanked by a book store and an independent grocer's, shabby and small in comparison to them both. Few people even realized that it was there on the corner, taking up just a small wedge of the block. The stone steps leading up to it were worn and smooth, made shiny not by tender loving care but the many footsteps of the downtrodden and desperate.
By one o'clock in the morning, there were small hints of activity at the grungy little pawn shop. Its two windows were blotted out by crooked blinds that still let out narrow strips of light, revealing that someone was very much at home. Though the entire city block was otherwise silent, a man in a dark green hooded jacket had been walking his barrel-chested rottweiler around the block in a continuous loop ever since 12:45.
Inside, the shop was considerably livelier than the largely silent city around it. The shelves that normally held bits and baubles were pushed gently to the sides, widening the floor space to allow for a wooden table and two chairs. Seated in those chairs, facing one another, were two very different men. The first was tall and graying, with elegant features and a deep blue jacket. The second was of average height and portly build, dressed in a neat black and white suit with a top hat crowning his head and black and white mask covering the top half of his face. The nose of his mask seemed to form a beak over his nose, the sockets making his own eyes seem beady and small.
"Julian," the Penguin said with a crocodile's smile, extending a shiny, gloved hand to the other man.
Julian Harris took his hand, shaking it firmly. "Penguin," he replied stiffly. His gaze shifted to the man at the Penguin's right, a brutally ugly man by the name of Randy Hummel. Behind Randy stood Brock Sanders, a dark-haired man with a glock on his hip. "It's a pleasure to see you."
"Pleasure doing business with you, Julian. Now." The Penguin picked up a dark gray case that had been sitting beside him, setting it on the table and opening it to reveal the contents. "What do you think?" The case contained one FN 5.57-caliber pistol, its magazine, and two rounds of ammunition. "Because there's plenty more where this came from." Just a block down, hidden in a private driveway, was a family-friendly minivan stocked with 50 cases identical to the one the Penguin offered for show.
Seven other men looked on as Julian inspected the case, looking to the Penguin for permission before pulling the pistol from its foam padding and hefting it in his hands. "Very nice," he murmured, turning it about. "You deliver."
"I always deliver, Julian!" the Penguin quacked, chuckling as he leaned back in his seat. "So. You have the green?"
Without a word, Julian pulled out from under his seat a locked box. Extracting a key from his pocket, he opened the box with a smile and turned it towards him. "I, too, always deliver."
The sight of all those bills made the Penguin cackle with delight.