Crimes Against Art (Open RP) - Current Pace: 1 post / day

The Tap Room on Beaumont was a last-chancer's dive, where the dusty air stank of stale cigarettes and desperation. Dmitri slouched in a booth in the back, paging through a ragged newspaper some other patron had left behind. He'd spent his last two dollars on a pint of draft beer. It sat at his elbow, lukewarm and untouched, his down payment on a place to sit and think for a while.

He'd been a player, back in Los Angeles. Money, women, hot cars and hot nights. Now his game was over and he'd been exiled with nothing but the shirt on his back, left to rot in the hell of San Paro. He knew he could rebuild, start fresh and make something of himself once more, but one old rule always holds true no matter what business you're in: it takes money to make money. Before he could start the ball rolling again and rebuild his reputation, he'd need a nest egg, some seed money to throw around. And that meant a heist. A high-profile heist in a city crawling with licensed-to-kill vigilantes, most of them more deranged than the criminals they hunted.

He turned the brittle page, glancing over the local events section, and smiled.

Art Robbery Shocker
Yesterday's armed robbery at the Sullivan Gallery in San Paro's Financial District -- an assault which left two employees dead and another seriously injured -- was carried out by a small band of shotgun-brandishing thugs who, despite immediate Enforcer response, managed to slip away unscathed. Vocal critics of Mayer Derren's controversial City Security Act immediately pointed to the event as yet another failure of the current administration's leadership.

"It was a blitz attack," said gallery owner Tim Sullivan, still visibly shaken in the aftermath of the raid. "They just ran in and started shooting... The weird thing was, they had time to loot half the gallery, but they only took one piece. It's not the most expensive painting in the gallery, not by far, but that was all they were after."

That piece, "Blue Square", was painted in 1931 by Russian artist Kazimir Malevich. Malevich was the founder of the avante-guard "Suprematist" school, whose emphasis on simple geometric shapes made an indelible mark on the formation of modern art. The piece had just come to San Paro as part of a small touring exhibit from Vienna, and had only been on display for a few days before the theft took place. While the thieves destroyed the security system, one blurry image of the gang's leader was salvaged: if you recognize the man in the photo below, please contact the San Paro Police Department immediately. The Sullivan Gallery is offering a reward for information leading to...

Dmitri closed the paper. "You finally did it," he said aloud to nobody in particular. "All these years, Oleksandr, and you finally stole the damn thing. Good for you. Too bad you won't be keeping it."

A plan was forming in the back of his mind, rusty wheels beginning to turn with the anticipation of a score. Dmitri couldn't pull this off alone: he'd need locals, people who knew the lay of the land. A driver, a shooter or two. He didn't mind splitting the take, if it meant making enough to get back on his feet again. If he guessed right, there'd be enough cash for everybody. Everybody except Oleksandr. He left the beer and the paper behind, and went over to talk to the crusty old man behind the bar.

"You look like you know people."

The bartender shrugged, as he cleaned out a glass with a dirty rag. "Everybody knows people."

"People who need work."

"Unemployment's up to fifteen percent. Everybody needs work."

"I'm not talking about flipping burgers at McDonalds," Dmitri said.

"I might know a friend of a friend who knows somebody. Not saying anything specific. You -- you, I don't know."

"I'm a friend of a friend. And I'm offering work. Just in case you happen to know somebody who's looking."

The bartender gave Dmitri a casual once-over, trying to judge the man's measure. Their eyes met, and an entire conversation passed between them without a single word being said.

"I might be able to put the word on the street," the bartender said. "Where are you gonna be?"

"That booth," Dmitri said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"Huh. You gonna buy another beer?"

"Start a tab for me."

Another sucker falls for her trick. A bet against a blind girl at pool, and she wins with four shots. She had mastered this art well, and now she carried a wad of cash and another thug with a grudge on her. She could care less about the latter. She had money, and she had made it easy. Almost too easy it would seem. She could only scam once in a while, since word was getting out of her skill at the pool table and her game.

Trauma made her way to the bar, taking out her pack of cigarettes, "Hey Marty, got a light?"
The old man behind the counter gave her a hard look, which was lost to the blind girl, "I've told you time and time again, my name is not Marty."
Still, the old man took a lighter he kept handy and lit the cigarette for the young lady, "I see you won another bet at pool." he added, "Maybe you'll spend some of that money on a lighter?"
"Maybe, if I remember." she said, smoking leaving her lips as she spoke, "If I remember." she said flatly.
The old man grumbled under his breath, "You should stop scamming people. You'll get shot eventually."
"I get shot at on a weekly basis. This is San Paro after all." she shrugged.
There was a long pause. The old man cleaned the counter for a few seconds, before speaking to Trauma again, "Say, you wouldn't happen to be looking for work, would you?"
"Are you kidding? The two hundred I make here on a weekly basis is not enough to pay the bills. I'm always looking for work. It's not every day people employ a blind woman you know." she took a drag of her cigarette, "I'm not much for serving drinks though." she added, blowing a trail of smoke into the air after she spoke.
The old man chuckled, "I'm trying to get you out of the bar, lady. A man is looking for hands, he's at that booth over there." he pointed.
Trauma stared blindly at the bartender. She waved her hand on front of her face, "Over there could be a lot of places, Marty."
"My name is not-! you know, never mind. Third booth from the right. Far back. Find your way there if you want." he muttered something under his breath as he moved away from her to serve someone else.
Trauma loved to anger the old man by calling him Marty. Truth is she called all bartenders Marty. It just seemed fun to do.

Trauma got up, making her way across the dive, dodging drunkards and hoodlums as though she could see. Most believed she faked her blindness. Most people don't know the blind can actually see shadows and general shapes. Trauma had lived in horrible places all her life. She had to adapt since she was a little girl. By now her art was second nature. As long as she wasn't put behind the wheel of a car she'd be just fine.

Trauma made her way to the booth, standing by it, staring blankly forward, "I hear you're looking for employees."
Trauma was wearing black and purple business pants, with a green and purple hoodie. Her hair was short and choppy, dyed purple, strands falling over her milky white eyes. She was of average height and average weight, in her early 20s, pretty though nothing special. There was an air about her, though. This woman was simply not afraid of anything.

"That job was a piece of cake!"

Ian looked up from the small netbook. "There was really no chance of it being difficult, Mike. It was a simple delivery job."

Michael gave a frustrated sigh, setting down his empty glass. "Can't you let me enjoy one thing, you limey bastard!" He crossed his arms, slumping down in their booth near the back. "Some of those easy gigs get real messy, you know that. Ian? Are you even listening? What the hell are you reading?"

Ian didn't look up this time. "Liverpool's playing Arsenal for the opener. Should be a good one."

"Enough about that stupid soccer shit!"

"Football shit." He closed the computer, sliding it over to him. "Thanks for letting me borrow that."

Mike mumbled an aggravated "You're welcome" before standing up. "Look, it's getting pretty late. I'm going to head out."

Ian nodded slowly, raising his hand to order another beer. There was commotion in the booth behind him now, something about work. He awaited his drink, resting his head back against the booth.

Dmitri wore the shadow of a scar on his right cheek and the faint aroma of cheap musk cologne. Athletic, but built more like a longshoreman than a gym rat. There was the faintest hint of a bulge under his black leather jacket as he looked Trauma over, nodded, and gestured to the other side of the booth.

"Dmitri," he said, not offering a last name. "What do you go by?"

"I go by Trauma." she said flatly. She knocked on the table with her fist, hard enough to make the items on it rattle but not hard enough to topple anything out. She found the ashtray this way, mashing her cigarette on it. Being blind she didn't notice the nod, "So may I sit? Oh yes, I probably should mention, I'm blind." she said with an exaggerated grin.

"A single port, over some ice, whenever you're ready." carried through air, from behind the bar, above the chiming of knocking together of empty bottles and soft sift of frozen water; a bag of miniature blocks of ice cascading gently with intent into the porcelain sink.

"Port?" echoed back. The tones along which it was conveyed like a search-light of pragmatism among a sea of drunken-ness and absent minded joviality. Not that it was a bad thing; but it was nice to have something to keep you from crashing into the rocks, onto which some viscously burgundy liquid was beginning to lace itself around, somewhere close to the source of introduction.

"That bottle's one of our more expensive, actually." the half-bald, jet-black matte-haired bar-keep went on to explain, turning where he stood. Reversing course amidst the polishing of the smooth oaked surface before him; assumedly rather more spritely than was intended for a vessel of his maturity if the sudden grasp toward his lower back and exclamation of explative were to be believed.

The well-rehearsed grimace worn broadside rotated into view of a smile, almost smirk alongside the second-most-tall shelf behind; which was just about the height he could reach on a good day, for the reserve bottle of Château Rayas '47. "Ecks. One of these days..."

"Pfft. You'll outlive that bottle, and then some." the rusty-auburn haired figure chuckled toward the incandescent northern province of Portugal, almost over a quarter full before gently pouring back the smallest of savours; indulging in each moment of textured after-taste - his attentions and thoughts immediately and forever more than a continent away and fleetingly, within the contents of the glass itself. In contrast, a healthily smokey lung full of charcoal air bellowed out an equally as hearty laugh, in between each sip.

"Good to see you again. How've you been?"; the bulwark of non-tradition having encouraged his focus back into the room.

"Excellent, thanks. It's been so warm, recently, though raining for most of this evening; actually quite refreshing.", his conclusion of sentence co-ordinated, in time, with an almost wink and nod toward the glass in hand.


Across the partition of the bar not yet reflexive in its reflection, the other hand lifted to reveal a resemblance of pamphlet, on top of which lay a comparatively straight-laced monetary note of more than comparable value to the evening's expenditure. With his head tilted just a little to the side, in thought and eyes half closed in consideration, the almost evident smile of adventure was more than enough record of confirmation.


"I'll make sure it arrives with the next round."



[Picture thanks to Glen Baxter, 2007].

"You're..." Dmitri said and then paused, not entirely certain if he was being put on or not. He scrutinized Trauma closely, before shooting a dark look across the room towards the bartender. If he had sent her over as a joke...

"Yes. Have a seat, if you like. You'll forgive my surprise. You understand that this isn't... I mean, you know that I'm not..."

He trailed off, frowning. Decided to eschew delicateness and go for the direct question.

"What do you do, exactly, Trauma?"

Ian opened an eye. Blind? But he had just watched her win a game of pool. Either she was some kind of psychic wonder, or she was a really committed hustler.

He checked his watch. He still had some time left to kill. Maybe he'd see where this conversation went. Hell, if the "blind" girl couldn't do the job, he'd be more than happy to take her place.

The door swung open, bell ringing to annunciate the arrival of another, punctuated by a distant scream and the low thump of exploding fuel.

But that did not matter.

It was not important.

She was here, and she had her sandwich.

This looked like a nice place to eat it.

So! There she was, while one man asked a woman what she did. Let the camera of the mind's eye pan just to the left, showing the street-rat in the backdrop. Lettuce on leftover sweatpants, fallen from a sandwich gripped in too-thin fingers on slender arms sprouting from a frame whose overall emaciation is spared from view by a stained, name-brand tank top someone else didn't want anymore.

Green leaves crunched and crackled between her teeth while she eavesdropped, smiling a faint yet permanent smile.
~~~~~
Come, and open up your folding chair next to me...
My feet are buried in the sand, and there's a breeze.
There's a shadow; You can't see my eyes.
And the sea...is just a wetter version of the skies...
~Regina Spektor, Folding Chair

Trauma raised an eyebrow, taking the seat, guessing it's location by comparison to where Dimitri was. She chuckled softly, "The fact you are still listening intrigues me. Either you are a kind man or you know that not everything is as it seems... no pun intended.

"I do all sorts of things. Steal, scam, burn, kill. You name it I've done it. Well, except driving. I mean, I have done it, but I prefer not to. I may have a super-developed sense of direction, but driving I'll leave for those who can see... unless I'm absolutely required to drive given a circumstance, in which case a lot of people will die, and the car will be a wreck by the time I'm done with it." she laughed softly, remembering a few instances where that did happen.

"Almost everything makes a sound. My mind is trained to place that sound on a location automatically, no matter how insignificant that sound may be. For example, I can tell there is a lady... or a very skinny man... eating a sandwich with rather crisp lettuce over there." she gestured in the direction of Gish, "I can also tell that a rather full mug of beer is right there." she pointed at the beer mug on the table, "That one I noticed when I smacked the table earlier to find the ashtray. Now imagine this ability when it comes to shooting. I can pinpoint someone's location by their footsteps, their voices, the sound of guns cocking... and once I know where they are, I know how to make the bullets from my gun hit that target. Even if they are hiding behind something." she smiled darkly.

"I know that not everything is as it seems," he said, leaving aside the question of kindness as he glanced around the smoky room. She was good. Accurate, more than he could have been with just his ears. Of course, she didn't know anything the bartender couldn't have told her before she walked over. One way to find out.

He slid his hand into his jacket pocket. His fingertips found a tarnished nickel. Well, well, not flat broke after all. Let's hear it for small favors.

"But are you able to react quickly, to think on your feet? For example--" he said, then curled his fingertips and flicked the nickel to send it flying in a glittering arc over the table, towards her.

His voice changed position, the usual tone of someone reaching into their coat pockets. Trauma had only one experience with this sort of reach, specially in this sort of place. Under the table she reached her hand into her hoodie pocket, gripping the solid handle of one of her best friends. As she heard the movement of Dimitri's arm by the faint sound of fabric moving and the air being cut Trauma pulled out a gun, smacking the nickle with the barrel. She thought what was thrown at her was a thrown weapon of some sort. She aimed the gun at him, loaded and ready. She then furrowed her brow, hearing the nickle hit the floor, "A coin? Mr. Dimitri, you're going to get yourself killed with this sort of games." she said with a smirk, flipping the safety back on her gun with her thumb, lowering her weapon and hiding it back in her pocket.
"My experience says most people keep guns in their coat pockets." she said with a small chuckle, "You're lucky I prefer to warn before shooting in this situation."

Dmitri stared down the barrel of Trauma's gun, his breath caught in his throat, only exhaling once she put it away.

"My gun is in my other pocket," he said with respect in his voice, "I'm left-handed. And you just got yourself a job. Most sighted people I know aren't that fast. Were you born blind?"

He paused, giving her another look, in a new light.

"And more relevant to the matter at hand, do you have any moral qualms I should know about?"

Trauma smiled, "I had to learn to react quickly or die." she nodded once in response to his question, "I was born blind. I can see lights and shadows, and some movement, but nothing significant." she didn't feel like going into detail at the time. She didn't like to brag, though she certainly appreciated the respect in Dimitri's voice. It was a novelty she wasn't used to, but she undoubtedly liked.

"Moral qualms are lost to monsters like myself, Mr. Dimitri. I've killed, I've stolen, I've burned. In the streets it's survival of the strongest, and I'm already handicapped. I have to stay one step ahead of every animal with a gun around me." she smiled, "I threw away my morals a long time ago. No worries there."

"Good," Dmitri said, nodding though she couldn't see it. "I'm a plain-dealing villain, and I prefer to work with the like-minded. Nothing worse than someone getting cold feet in the middle of a job."

He crinkled the newspaper. He realized he was about to show her the article, and caught himself just short of saying something really stupid.

"Don't know if you heard the news, but the Sullivan Gallery was hit yesterday. The thieves stole a rare Malevich, and only one photograph from the security cameras survived. Thing is, I know this man. He used to be an... Associate of mine, back in Los Angeles. Bottom-feeding thug by the name of Oleksandr Karchenko. He knew a private collector back in the Ukraine who was crazy for Malevich's work. Now, liquor-store holdups and home invasions are more Oleksandr's speed and I don't think he's ever seen a portrait that wasn't painted on a prison cell's wall, but he told me more than once that if he had an easy chance to grab a painting on this collector's 'shopping list', he'd do it in a heartbeat.

"He must have heard about the Vienna exhibition coming around, and decided to go for the gold. Not subtle, either. The guys on his crew are as batshit as he is, and they've got a taste for cocaine and shotguns. Now that they've got it, I figure it'll take him a day or two to line up transport, after which point the Malevich will be smuggled offshore on a cargo ship and it'll never be seen again. I know the kinds of places he hangs out, the crowds he runs with: I think, with a little luck, we could track Oleksandr down before he gets away with the goods. Once we have the painting, we turn around and ransom it to the Sullivan Gallery's insurance company. Given that their only alternative is paying off the gallery's entire theft policy, they'll be happy to deal with us and buy their property back without incident. We profit, the insurance company profits, the gallery profits, the art-loving community of San Paro profits... Oleksandr and his crew, they don't come out so good in this deal, but we won't lose sleep over that."

He leaned back in the booth, cheap vinyl upholstery crinkling against his shoulders.

"So. Are you in?"

"You really should be more careful about where you talk about these things, mate."

Ian couldn't keep quiet any longer. He stood up, approaching their booth. "I hate to interrupt, but you never know who could be listening in. Luckily for you, I'm no cop. I would,however,like to offer my services. Maybe give you and this blind wonder here a helping hand. I'm a good shot, quick on my feet, and have no qualms about shooting some eastern Europeans."

He took a swig from his bottle, looking down at the pair as he awaited an answer.

"If you were a cop," Dmitri said evenly, not taking his eyes from Trauma, "you would have kept your mouth shut and waited until we actually did something actionable. After all, we're just two old friends, talking about a television show we saw last night. Sit down, join us."

He moved over a bit, leaving his still-untouched and room temperature beer where it was, forgotten now.

"Besides, I think the young lady here would have smelled the badge on you. Have a name?"

Ian chuckles, taking his seat as he extends his hand to the man. "Guess that's why I'm not a cop. I'd make a horrible one. Name's Ian Carlyle. And who might you two be?"

He looked between them, grinning.

Trauma let out a chuckle by the conversation going on between the two men. She already liked the attitude of both. Oh, this would be fun.

"So, returning to our conversation on this most intriguing TV show we so love... you are basically doing this for revenge, and a little profit on the side?" she appeared to dislike this idea, the way all emotion faded from her face and how her blind eyes were directed right at Dimitri, in what would be a glare of disapproval. She allowed the idea to lull in her mind for a few seconds of silence, and suddenly her face brightened, a mischievous grin playing on her lips, "I'm in."

She turned to Carlyle, "I'm Trauma. Nice to meet you, mr. horrible cop." she said with a playful smirk.

"Dmitri," he said, taking Ian's hand and giving it a firm shake.

He considered Trauma's question for a moment, and shook his head.

"Profit only. The only man in my past who I could justly avenge myself against is dead, and that's fine. Revenge is a fool's game. Makes you hot-headed. Sloppy. If you're going to kill a man, best to do it quick and without passion. The only reason I'm still alive today is because someone insisted on gloating when they had a gun to my head. And for what? The dead don't need explanations.

"This Oleksandr is a fool, but not an enemy. He just has the misfortune of standing between us and our money. By the time he realizes this truth, it will be too late for him."

Ian let his eyes shift to the newcomer. He recognized her, but decided to call out. He turned to face the man, setting his bottle down.

"Right, so what's the big plan then? What do you need me to do?"

"Give me coffee.....Marty." One of the few bits of conversation I could pick up from the lofty position of my head down on the bar. What time is it?....do I even care? I've been here in San Paro for 3 days and I think I've slept for about four minutes. I can't keep doing this.

"Why do people keep calling me Marty?....Hey....HEY!

Of course, slamming your hand on the bar....need my attention that bad huh you son of a-
"What."

As I lifted my head off the bar, a newspaper stuck to my face.
"Listen I'm cutting you off. If you can't sit up straight, then that's it."

"I'm not drunk." I wasn't lying. I wasn't drunk. In fact, I would have longed for inebriation that would drop a full grown ape. But instead, I get mind numbing fear and skull crunching headaches. So excuse me if I'm not wearing bells on my feet.

"Maybe you're not drunk...ya high? Ya look high."

Really. I'm not going to argue with this guy. He sort of reminds me of Coach from Cheers."Look it's just been....it's been kinda tough. Money wise, I mean. That's why I'm not drunk or high. Cause I can't afford to be drunk or high. It's getting to that point where I'm about to....well I'm getting desperate. And it's depressing the shit out of me."

Coach gave me a look. That look that said "OOH! I bet I can solve all your problems. I know it and you know I know it which is why I'm so damn pleased with myself!"

"Well, son. I'd like to help you....but we're all dealing with financial setbacks....

Damn it. I just told you I'm border-line poor and....screw it. Let me see....I'll give him twenty. And if he doesn't talk I can always rob the place...

As I slid him the twenty, he dropped the newspaper in front of me and pointed to the headline. I couldn't believe it. Come on, Mota. Let's keep some composure.

"An art robbery? How the hell does a robbery, that already happened by the way, help me?"

He wasn't even looking at me anymore. He was looking at something across the room.

"Son, I'm gonna tell you what I tell every kid that walks into my bar: This city is an endless resource. How you use that resource is up to you and also none of my business. You play nice and you might just help yourself out. But you start hoggin' the sandbox...well you seem kinda bright. You'll get it."

....thanks Coach. What was he looking at? I see a couple guys. Ok. So a an art robbery plus a couple guys comes to....a wasted twenty bucks. But I'm positive that's that girl that hustles pool games. I'd know since she got to me Thursday. One guy told me she was blind. I told myself that I suck at pool. But she was kinda cute...for a blind chick. Maybe she'd teach me to cheat at pool...

In the midst of my day dreaming, I didn't even realize I had been staring.

"There's a place over on the east side," Dmitri said, casting a casual glance towards the door, "called the Rubicon. Grandiose name for a squalid little hole-in-the-wall strip joint. Mostly plays to the expats and the harbor crowd. I know it's Oleksandr's little home away from home when he's in town, and I don't expect him to change his habits anytime soon. If he's there, we can either follow him to the painting or invite him to have a private chat, get the information that way. Depending. Depending mostly on how many of his boys are around and how loud we want to play this. First things first, we need a car. Something inconspicuous and disposable."

He paused, then looked over at Trauma.

"I won't ask you to drive."