Summary:Natasha finds a familiar face why unwinding at The Cockerel, or possibly trailing someone, one can never tell with her. Log Info:Storyteller: N/A |
Related LogsTheme Song"Where Everybody Knows Your Name" by Gary Portnoy - https://youtu.be/h-mi0r0LpXo |
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It was a comfortable environment for Logan. The Cockerel was a pool hall that had seen better days. It was the sort of place where fights were frequent and generally invited little repercussion, at least from the ownership or authorities. It was a place that was not worth the trouble for the police to frequent, unless they had to, and that resulted in a certain clientele.
Generally, the patrons were a more obvious, braggadocious sort of thug than Logan was. The Harlem crowd had a certain swagger about it and there was a dangerous undercurrent to the place, at least tonight. There was a real sense that stepping up to the wrong person could be a grave mistake.
It was here that Logan felt most comfortable. He sat at the bar, one of the few caucasians in the joint, looking sorely out of place in his checkered work shirt, jeans, and work boots. A jean jacket and a leather jacket were draped on the barstool next to him. He was finishing the last dregs from a pint of beer and already he was fishing into his pocket for payment for the next one. He had to count out some coins to scrape together enough. Scowling, he slapped the coins down with a clear gesture to the bartender before he turned atop his seat to look over toward the pool table. He sought out an easy mark as he chewed on the end of the lit cigar between his lips. The cherry end bobbed slightly with the motion, tendrils of smoke curling lazily up toward the ceiling overhead. The place sold cigarettes and, under a technicality of the law, smoking was permited. Not that anyone usually came to check.
Another of the rare few caucasians in the place, was a red haired woman in a red tank top and a black leather jacket, already engaged in a game at the pool table. Normally, someone like her might be taken as the weakest link at the pool table, by prejudice alone. But anyone thinking in such terms would be wrong on this occasion.
There's a bit of a ruckus from the small crowd gathered by the table, watching her just turning the tables on her opponent, a guy who standing a couple of heads taller than her, who until recently was winning this game. Formerly he had the advantage of only having two more balls to clear, but from having 7 more than him, the woman is suddenly sinking them in quick succession. While at first she giggles charmingly and feigns lucky shots, when it comes down to the eight ball, she gets called out for hustling.
With a shrug, the red head answers, "I didn't tell you how good I was before you agreed to play, but then I didn't tell you I was bad either, you just made an assumption." Sometimes a fight could break out over a perceived hustle, but in this case, the fact she's a woman seems to help her avoid an unpleasant situation, though with her sinking the eight ball the game ends and she looks around, "any takers for a game?" She asks, though this time, she doesn't get any eager volunteers.
Logan watches the display, at first with some measure of irritation, but then with growing amusement. The display alone - not only the sight of the redhead leaning over the table, but more the prowess and skill shown - causes his scowl to fade and a lopsided grin to bloom in its wake. His designs on hustling up enough money for another beer vanished with the redhead's victory. She had run of the table and was no sure thing. So instead of stepping forward and letting machismo or pride or competition rule the day, he leaned his back against the bar and put his hands together.
There were no other immediate takers for a game. There were the discontented grumblings of the swindled, the laughter at his expense, and the background noises in the bar. But above this, from a dozen feet away or so, came the sound of one man clapping. He turned to pick up the beer now delivered to him and, should the redhead turn his way, he lifts it in a silent salute before he takes a drink.
Natasha grins when all the men around the table seems to have wisened up to her skill, and she goes about putting her cue stick back on the rack. "Maybe next time, good games, thanks guys," she winks, and moves towards the bar. Particularly the one guy who actually clapped for her victory, "I see you can appreciate some good irony," she says with a smirk once she approaches Logan.
"Seeing how you stand out in decorum, mind if I join you for a drink?" Clearly dervied from the fact it's better to drink in company rather than alone, and not because he seems extremely familiar or anything of the sort.
He chews his cigar again, bobbing the smoldering end slightly. Natasha gets a quick up-and-down look before he sweeps an open palm toward the stool next to his. "So long as you ain't expectin' to much more in the way of manners, Red, come on down." He turns to lean his side against the edge of the bar, tracking her with his eyes. "I just appreciate some good game," he offers by way of explanation. "And you *played* him."
"I can live with poor manners, I set foot in this dive, haven't I?" Natasha muses as she moves to takes a seat in the stool next to Logan, looking him over in turn, "I certainly did, it started with the guy in the Knicks cap teaching me how to play…" she shares with a wink, before motioning for the bartender, "I'll have a Black Russian," she says before placing the money on the counter. "I like it when the game pays for the drinks. So how come you came here of all places? You don't look like the typical regular."
Logan grunts in acknowledgement of the point the woman makes. His eyes track over toward the guy in the Knicks cap and then return to Natasha. "That right? You splittin' with him or…? Nah. Just about any guy here'd be happy to teach you to play, I figure." He lifts a hand to tap at his temple before he uses the hand to pluck his cigar from between his lips. He exhales up toward the ceiling while tapping some ash from the end into an ash tray. "Cheap beer," he answers her question. "Sometimes an easy hustle. Not now, though." He lifts a shoulder in an uneven shrug at that.
"I was hustling them…nothing builds confidence like a woman who needs to learn the game, and then asking if she could join the betting for fun," Natasha doesn't seem to have any issues with her deception, "you know, I asked if he can show me how to play, I never said I didn't already know how to play. That's on him." She chuckles at the mention of the cheap beer, "I think it's part of the charm of this place, no?"
Logan quirks a brow at Natasha. "Charm?" he echoes with a smirk. He turns himself to face more toward the bar - at an oblique angle toward her still, indicating ongoing interest in conversation. He puffs on his cigar again before he notes, "There's a sucker born every minute. Still. Good of you not to go the longer game, get them to go double-or-nothing a time or two."
"I'm not greedy," Natasha notes, turning her head to look back over her shoulder, as a new game takes place, the guy she just beat trying to earn back his losses from other guys. "Besides, injured pride he can take, especially when all's in good fun, but if I crush his ego, he might consider slapping me around a bit if not worse, and I hate violence."
Just like that, her Black Russian is served, likely one of the worst she'll ever have, but she doesn't seem to mind as she takes a sip. "So you look the rugged type…anyone ever tell you that you could be a shoe in for a Western?"
Logan's eyes flit toward the bartender that serves the black russian, taking another draught of his beer. "Interesting," he notes to her explanation. "You ain't scared of it, you just hate the violence." He smirks slightly at that, some unspoken thought present behind his gruff veneer. The next question has him lofting a brow again. "Oh yeah? Maybe I missed my calling. I should haul ass across to LA and get me in the movies. Become a millionaire."
"I didn't say if I'm scared or not, just that I hate it, I mean…does it ever truly resolve anything?" Natasha asks Logan while looking at him with a slight batting of the eyes. "At the very least it would afford you better drinks, then again, you're not here for the drinks, are you?" Nat muses, he certainly seemed one of the more interesting people in the entire establishment, that's for sure.
"Uh huh," he answers, sounding unconvinced at Natasha's initial comment. Another brief, sidelong glance is given at her quesiton, though he treats it as a rhetorical one, not bothering to answer though, again, seeming unconvinced of her line of reasoning. Instead of voicing it though, he puffs at his cigar again, while she turns her focus to the fantasy of the millionaire Logan. "Wouldn't know what to do with a million if I got it," he notes with a shrug. "I'd probably end up in a shit bar like this one again. At least here folks are honest. Even the hustlers." He grins sidelong at her, flashing a set of straight, white teeth, completely with longer-than-normal, sharper-than-normal canines.
"I'll give you that much, honesty does have value, day to day, in the rat race, everybody lies…only way to keep moving forward." Natasha muses, drinking some more of her drink, before adding with a pointing index finger, as if making a point, "even those who are honest lie, to themselves, for the most part." She tilts her head a bit at the notion he wouldn't know what to do with a million, before nodding along, "sounds fair, most people wouldn't know, even if they think they would."
Logan dips his head at the point from Natasha. "True 'nuff," he answers. He takes another drink of his beer - the last of it - before he brushes his hands off on his jeans and picks up the cigar he left in the ash tray to do so. "All right, Red," he says, "So… I'm gonna have to find a way to pay for my next drink, now that you soured the hustlin' waters. Don't go noplace, I'll be back…" It is a brief interlude before, should she decide to stick around, he returns after some successful arm-wrestling for cash, to continue their conversation…