Summary:Elmo returns the headphones to Ambrose fixed beyond expectation…and gets an enticing offer in return. Get your mind out of the gutter, it's more work fixing things, geez. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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*
Evening falls on the city and after the warmth of the day's sun, the chill of night comes along to remind everyone that it's not spring yet. The Jolly Rigger is doing a normal run of business for a weekday evening. It's not Friday or Saturday, the two busiest days of the week for the hour. Despite this, the bar is busy enough. Almost every slat-backed swiveling bar chair is taken by locals talking over things and watching the sports shows on display or laughing with one another about something. It's a general conversation volume for a pub.
At the lengthy wooden bar-top, the Jamaican bartender is in his element, rattling a steel shaker to pour out a martini into a glass for a customer. Behind him, a taller gentleman in a black-backed suit-vest over a crisp white shirt is pointing at the liquor bottles on display. Must an inventory night! His shoes are shined and his charcoal-black slacks pristine. He grumbles visually, bottles do not match numbers. When Elmo arrives, asking any of the wait-staff for the owner will get him pointed towards the bar in particular.
*
Elmo heads for the bar when he gets there, because why not ask the beautiful bartender where the boss is? It's as good an excuse as any to talk to him, right? Elmo steps up on the railing (so he's not trying to peer over the bar like a four-year-old) and smiles shyly at the bartender. "Hi, here to talk to the boss. Got somethin' for him." He's wearing that sunny yellow shirt, electric blue waistcoat, and a long similarly-brilliant blue coat over that. Colorful as a tropical bird. Skinny jeans and workboots are on-fleek, though the workboots seem like they've had a long and fruitful life. They're carefully maintained, for anyone who notices such things, but old. Maybe even vintage. It just makes his whole outfit cooler.
*
The Jamaican bartender looks up from putting aside a used curl of lime and gives Elmo a broad, friendly grin. He's got his bouquet of dreadlocks back again this evening.
"Ah, dee electrician." The shined bronze name-tag pinned to the bartender's deep-green polo t-shirt sporting the restaurant's title also sports his name: Desomond. "The boss is nearby." The young man's chuckling is rusty in places, but almost as if his voice is well-used and humor a familiar place for it. "Mistah Atherton, you've a present," he says over his shoulder towards the man doing liquor inventory.
"A present? On a night like this? That would be someone dropping a one-hundred dollar tip, don't you think…" Upon turning around, it's revealed that Ambrose is wearing a heather-grey twill suit vest with black pockets. His cell phone rests in one of the vest's pockets. "…Desomond," he finishes with an eyebrow at Elmo. Then it clicks. "Ah, yes, the electrician."
There's an echo in here!
The pen tip is pointed at Elmo as the pub owner steps up beside Desomond. The bartender shifts along down the bar as he's hailed by another patron, leaving them to their conversation in the open section of wooden bartop. "Rosencrantz, isn't it." Elmo gets a smile very nearly coy from the Jackal as the inventory is set aside and he leans forwards on the countertop behind the bar. It doesn't bring him much into Elmo's personal space, but rather gives the impression of private conversation. Those ocean-blue eyes glitter in the pub's lighting. "You've the headphones, I presume?"
*
Elmo fingerguns at Desomond and then promptly feels like an idiot. "You got it. The electrician. Who's got a name, by the way. Elmo." He grins at him, embarrassed, but doesn't offer to shake hands. There's a perfectly good reason! Desomond is way too busy to shake hands with the likes of him. Then the lovely bartender is off on other patrons and Elmo looks at Ambrose, a little defensively if we must be honest. Like, 'what, so I was flirting with your bartender'.
Clearing his throat, Elmo nods. "Got 'em." He brings the headphones out of his satchel and sets them on the bartop. They're repaired to within an inch of their lives, gleaming clean, even if some parts don't quite match anymore.
*
The Jackal's smile turns visibly coy, as if Elmo's expression was proof of guilt. Ambrose waits until the electrician's fingers are clear of the headphones set upon the gleaming wooden surface to take them up himself. He frowns as he looks over them, but not in censure, rather in interest to see what pieces have been visibly interchanged since last he looked upon them.
"Let's see if your words of assurance are worth your fee…" he murmurs crisply as he then pulls out his phone. A few swipes and he syncs the device to the Bluetooth capabilities of the headphones. Slipping them on, he gives Elmo an imperious glance before looking down expectantly to the Spotify app pulled up.
Down the way, Desomond is giving them both another rendition of that broadly-amused grin. He's busy filling some highball glasses with soda for mixed drinks. Elmo gets a little shrug from the bartender before Desomond's eyes return to Ambrose and, as if the boss were a reminder that he's on the clock, he returns to prepping drinks.
"Hmph." By the lilt of tone, Ambrose is impressed. He pushes the headphones down to hang around his neck, a decided touch of everyday over the refinement of his current outfit. "Well done indeed, Rosencrantz. Worth every penny. They're as exact as the day they were purchased."
*
Elmo gets a little flustered, attention more on Desomond than Ambrose. He quirks his highly-expressive eyebrows at him, smiling crookedly. Then Ambrose is talking to him and he snaps his attention back to him guiltily. "Yeah, I mean, of course I'm worth it, but now you got proof, huh? You ain't a guy who does anything without proof, seems to me." Elmo folds his arms on the bartop, leaning into it, trying to act taller than he is. "…That's a fantastic suit by the way." He eyes Ambrose over, in a way that's just plain rude and/or obvious, but he's really looking at the suit.
*
"Thank you kindly," replies Ambrose as to the compliment. He's amused given his thin smile reappearing. "Worth the money I put down, apparently. That's the fourth compliment today. I suppose I'll have to stoop to future fittings." His phone slides away into his suit-vest pocket and he then pulls out a thin wallet from the back of his slacks.
"Remind me again of your fee? And would you prefer cash or check? I do have a card as well if you have one of those handheld readers on your person." His attention is still rather intense, as if waiting to see if Elmo looks over again at the bartender. Desomond is nearby yet again, but patently at his task of rinsing out glasses under a stream of steaming water rather than chatting with any of the current patrons at the bar itself.
*
Elmo doesn't look Ambrose in the eye any more now than he has previously. His gaze is focused on Ambrose's shoulder, occasionally wandering away to something else. "Eh, anything is good," he says, as if talking to the barstool next door. Sometimes it's difficult to tell who or what he's talking to, and his habit of talking to everything doesn't help. "Cash is fine." He sets an old-fashioned carbon copy receipt form on the bar, fills out the price, and twirls it towards Ambrose. "Cheaper than a new pair of those, huh?" It's rather significantly cheaper.
*
Once the receipt is twirled towards him, Ambrose read over it. By the subtle and thoughtful tilt of his head, he expected a higher cost, perhaps. Out of the quality leather wallet comes a series of bills totaling out at least two times the proposed fee listed in ink on the carbon copies of paper. He places it down atop the pad and pushes the entire affair back towards Elmo.
"Never let it be said that I do not praise or reward fine effort and its resulting work. There." He lifts a palm towards Elmo gracefully to potentially halt any attempt to renege on acceptance as he slips the wallet away into his back pocket. "If there has been one thing I've learned over the decades, it's that good work should be well paid. Otherwise, resentment colors all action."
Decades. That's an odd word choice coming from the gentleman who looks no older than his early thirties at most.
*
Elmo tries to hide it, but he can't; he blinks at just how MUCH Ambrose is overpaying him. "You sure?" But Ambrose tells him he's sure. Elmo flips over a hand in a classically Yiddish gesture. "All right. You're the boss." He writes out Ambrose a receipt and tears it off for him. He has excellent handwriting, like a drafter. "Stuff like this, it ain't hard for me. Pretty easy, to be honest."
*
"I'll be certain to bring you more of a challenge next time. Desomond." Ambrose then raises his voice. The bartender glances over and holds up a finger as he's about to layer another coloration of liquor in a multi-hued, multi-flavored disaster awaiting the drinker. Oh, Tokyo Teas, how you bely your danger with sweet taste. After delivering it across the way to one of the floor wait-staff, the young man comes over with his hands drying behind the curtaining of a clean white bar towel.
Having not heard Elmo introduce himself earlier, the Jackal makes to take it upon himself instead. "Meet Elmo Rosencrantz, our newest electrician. He does Harringford's work in half the time and at quality or more. If you see him here, do not hesitate to offer him a drink on the house. Only one," Ambrose clarifies with a sharp smile at Elmo; there's no overt threat implied, but by Desomond's accompanying grin, the bartender's aware of past abuse of the kindness.
"You got it, Mistah Atherton. What be your drink choice dis evening, Mistah Rosencrantz?" Oh, how that Jamaican accent does things to the Yiddish surname. Weird things.
*
Elmo smirks. "Good. I like a challenge." Cockerel Ambrose calls him and cockerel he is. "Make it something tough next time." He pats the bartop twice in a sort of replacement for actually touching Ambrose.
When Desomond comes over, Elmo makes the world's biggest attempt to play it cool, and upnods at him. And then once again feels like an idiot. "Uh, hi. Yeah, hi. Whiskey sour, please? Thanks." All the flustered. The things Desomond's accent does to his name! "That's nice of ya," he says to Ambrose, like it's important Ambrose notice that it's nice.
*
"A second whiskey sour tacked on, please." Desomond nods towards Elmo and then towards Ambrose as well.
"You got it, Mistah Atherton." He steps on down the bar to begin prepping the two drinks, leaving the two gentlemen to talk once more. Ambrose's attention lingers on him as if to make certain he's at his work and not listening in before he looks back to Elmo. His eyes narrow a touch.
"You wish for something difficult, do you?" His tongue polishes one canine visibly. "Hmm…hmm-hmm-hmm…" It's a chuckle from deep in his chest. His eyes glitter again. "A sextant, Rosencrantz, from 1897. It has…taken some damage over the centuries. It is missing critical components and two lenses of glass. You'll find that…" Ambrose hedges long enough in searching for his thoughts that the two whiskey sours are dropped off silently by Desomond. "Ah, thank you." Lifting the drink to the bartender, he sips and places it down again on the countertop behind the bar.
"You'll find the lenses are made of a very specialized composite. Incredibly rare in this world. Fix this sextent, Rosencrantz, and I will reward you…very handsomely." Ambrose purrs the last portion of the sentence and his eyes nearly flash.
*
Elmo lets Desomond set the drink down rather than taking it from him and risk bumping fingers. He might die if he accidentally touches him. "Thanks, pal," he says to him, trying not to do anything too stupid this time.
Sipping carefully, he listens to Ambrose. The eyebrows go up at that look of glittering anticipation. Now Ambrose has his undivided attention.
"A sextant, huh?" Elmo leans forward, eyes narrowing. Brain kicking into high gear. "What kind of composite? What's this sextant supposed to do?"
*
Ambrose sips heavily again at his drink. As he then elucidates, he mulls the ice cubes around in it simply to see them spin as whirling icebergs in miniature. Beneath his words comes the minute clink-clink of ice on crystal.
"One question at a time then." By the tuck of his chin, minute as it is, he's pleased to have caught Elmo's attention, hook - line - and sinker. "The sextant itself allowed its user unparalleled navigational capacity. It could see and accurately transcribe the stars even in the middle of the darkest, stormiest night at sea," he reveals quietly. The light hasn't left his blue eyes. "Clouds mean nothing to the lenses used." He waits a second to let the information sink in before continuing. "As to the lenses…I believe they're made of opalized sea glass, collected and refined until thin enough to be seen through. Are you aware of the rarity of this particular sea glass?"
*
Elmo rubs his fingertips over the slick glass of his tumbler, rapidly, over and over, for the sensation of it. He's leaned forward but his eyes are focused on some point on the table while he listens with a kind of intent ferocity. "…Nah, I don't know anything about it. Gimme a second." Out comes his phone. Young people and their phones, these days! He's tapping on it and pulling up information on the kind of sea glass Ambrose is telling him about within a few seconds. Elmo finds a website and starts skimming it with little flicks of his calloused thumb. "Uhhh, okay. Huh. That's pretty frikkin' rare. You're serious about this?"
*
"I would not have shared the information with you if I thought you wouldn't be up to the challenge." Ambrose takes another deep sip of his drink before giving the young man across from him a lingering look. "As I said before, I'm not disinclined to reward you any less than favorably. What would you take as recompense? Money? I can transmit it electronically or bills…coins, bollions…" The dapper man lift a hand up at his side and his lips rise into a pleased smile. "Jewels, perhaps? Or…less monetary and more metaphysical perhaps? I do have connections to such…"
*
Elmo, still studying his phone, picks up his own drink for a sip or three. He pauses. "That's the best whiskey sour I ever had." Then back at Ambrose, he narrows his eyes, weighing the other man's words. "Money, eh. It's okay, but there's a lot more valuable stuff in the world, you know what I mean? Jewels, that ain't a bad thought, I got ideas…" for a moment, those ideas spark behind his eyes. "…But I dunno. Metaphysical, huh? I'm a material kinda guy, but you never know." He slips his phone back into his jacket pocket. "I wouldn't wanna ask you for a blank check or nothin'. I'm gonna have to look into what it'll take to get this done, and get back to you. Fair?"
*
"More than fair. I would not cut you a blank check regardless of your asking. You are wise, Rosencrantz, to realize as such. When you've come to your conclusions on matters, you know where I'll be." The sweep of his hand holding his own whiskey sour crosses between them both to indicate the pub itself. "Merely call in and speak with the manager. She will pass word on to me, in turn, if you have a proposed time you wish to meet."
With a rattle of ice, the rest of his drink disappears with a practiced swallow. Ambrose's tongue slips over his lip as he gives his empty glass a considering lift of brows. "That was not terrible at all. I'll have to commend Desomond on matters," he says quietly.
*
"Just because I fixed your wiring and your headphones don't mean you're all in. You'd be an idiot if you were, and you're no idiot." Elmo sort of makes it sound like an insult anyway, like Ambrose would be an idiot if he had any sense. He watches him down the drink with raised eyebrows. Then makes a manful attempt to match him, which fails and he winds up coughing into his sleeve. "Anyway," he rasps, and wipes his watering eyes, "material is gonna be the hangup, but you already know that."
*
"I trust if you care enough, you'll find a way to procure the necessities. Take your time." Ambrose glances over his shoulder towards the kitchen at a certain set of sounds that generally means broken crockery, accidental — but Desomond stepping back and then coming out with a shake of the head to the negatory means a fiasco avoided.
"I'm in no terrible hurry," the Jackal finishes with his attention sliding back to Elmo seated across the bartop. "If you feel inclined to indulge my whims, then do so." His smile appears again, charming and devilish, and is accompanied by a delighted, almost feline squint.
"And I do so love to be indulged…"
*
Elmo twitches at the sounds from the kitchen, wincing in anticipation of worse. It's okay, though! It's okay. He looks back at Ambrose. "All right. You're the boss." …and when Ambrose talks about his love of indulgence, Elmo blushes scarlet, sudden as a startled bird taking flight. He goes all hunchy and awkward. "Yeah, uh, well, uh…okay." Fumbling around for words, he doesn't find any. "I, uh, I oughta get going!"
*
"Don't let me keep you." The display of color is more than enough to sate Ambrose, given he lets up on the subtle lean into the electrician's space to boot — even with the separation of the gleaming wooden bartop between them. "You have our business card from your last visit. Think on it and if you find you have means to aid me, I shall replace the means and moreso yet in return. A simple exchange, I'd like to think."
Standing up, he then fusses with one of the buttons at his dress-shirt cuffs. "Have a nice evening, Mister Rosencrantz," he says, ever so politely even as his eyes half-lid.
*
Whew, he's really red! Elmo slithers off the barstool, not even bothering to try to hit the floor gracefully. "Okay-yeah-you-too!" He blurts the words as almost a single syllable. "I'll-be-in-touch-BYE!" And he's scarpering out the handsome doors.