Description: Part of Soma's assignment is to gather information on crime in the fighting circuit before it happens and then move to stop it. His initial meeting with Elle suggests that he could form a partnership with her, if he plays his cards right. Unfortunately, 'cards' appears to become a slightly more dangerous game right quick.
L'Amour. The name alone says it all. It's a high class place with high class tastes and a glass of water costs the average salariman a month's pay. Well, maybe not, but it's definitely not a pedestrian locale, situated high above the rooftops in a panoramic view above the city. Prime real estate indeed, for from the skyline view, everything is dwarfed save the dark, monolithic Geese tower.
Being called by Soma is definitely something unexpected. Nevertheless, Elle is compelled to see what the inquiry is over. She's just that kind of person. Despite curiousity having been the death of more than a few cats, Elle has managed to skate by enough on skill to the point where she can afford the few accommodations to interest.
The restaurant isn't the kind of place Elle frequents. Not anymore, anyhow. There was a time where she would visit establishments like this on occasion and enjoy the ambiance. Now it just seems like a chore. Nevertheless, she's not completely immune to social morays and has managed to scrape together a passable outfit. A short black cocktail dress and a dark maroon jacket may not appear to be much, but at least they match the purse and slingback pumps alright as well as doing much to cover the extensive tattoo on her left arm which would give her troublesome looks.
Thankfully, they haven't banned smoking here. It is Japan, after all. Lazily, she lights up, taking a drag on the cheap Luckies that she picked up before coming to this place, waiting boredly at a table and looking out over the city, legs crossed as she absently bobs one of them in idle boredness.
You should always keep them waiting. It's one of the little tricks you pick up as an investigator... and even as an intelligence analyst. Soma has been both and has other talents for reading crowds besides, so he finds this sort of affair particularly valuable. Also, don't give them a ground-level door to run out in case things go sour. If there's only one way down, you're not going to have to chase someone through alleyways to get them to stop. Of course... the fact that L'Amour is a fairly classy place that he can afford and he knows Elle hates is just Soma's way of twisting the knife a bit.
His dress almost gets him stopped at the door: crisp, cream-colored slacks, a button down moleskin dress shirt in a dark coffee brown, no tie, shirt untucked. However, Soma's cover story -- the ever-popular 'Fighting Novelist' -- gets him the Courtney Love Exemption as he chats with the maitre'd, hyacinth-purple eyes sweeping across the room until he sees Elle, his lip twisting a bit as he finds her smoking. Yep... she's probably either nervous or angry.
Good.
Cowed by minor celebrity, the stereotypical maitre'd sweeps across the floor of the restaurant. Only at this late morning hour could there be empty tables here, the rich enjoying the concept of dining above their pedestrian lessers, but that suits Soma just fine. Pulling out his own chair, the undercover agent has a seat and settles himself in before he bothers to look up, shooing away the help once he's had a glass of water poured.
He sets a manilla folder on the table in front of him, and only then waves to Elle. "Morning, starshine."
The woman exhales a cloud of smoke, and stubs out the cigarettes. Elle was supposed to quit this week. So much for that. As for nerves? Perhaps a little. Elle chafes under authority, high falutin' atmospheres, and general situations where she's not in total control of her surroundings. Basic insecurities for borderline sociopaths.
She remains wordless as Soma settles himself, primarily because she's got nothing to say. Secondly, she's not wuite sure why she's here and doesn't really seek to presume much at this point. Her dulled eyes with the dark, open pupils stare emotionlessly at the man as he goes through the motions of society, dealing with the waiter and getting his water.
She nods as Soma greets, and she gets to the point. "What's this?" Asks the rocker, pointing at the folder, eyes flicking to it for only a moment.
She gets right to the point, doesn't she? But Soma's not going to dive right in no matter how hard Elle pushes. Bringing his glass to his lips, he sips the ice-cold water and then breathes out as he sets the glass down on the table again, brushing a finger across his top lip. No reason to push through this. Plus, a tiny part of him muses, Elle could probably USE a good meal that wasn't swiped out of, say, a baby's hands. Mmm... melba toast.
"Just some stuff I was working on this morning and didn't have time to leave at home," he lies smoothly, picking up his menu and glancing at it but not really taking it in. "Why don't we get something to eat first? I'd love to say I hear the (x) here is delicious but I expect these bourgeoise bastards would throw potting soil on a plate with a garnish of colored bell peppers and consider it haute cuisine." He grins down at the menu. "I wonder what the waiter will do if I ask for a short stack with a side of greasy bacon..."
Elle doesn't shake an iota. "I said: What's that?" Elle's face is great for poker, being primarily washed free of emotions to the point where it's difficult to tell whether or not the woman actually ever smiles. Most people have tiny defining lines on their faces. Not so with Elle. Apparently, she just doesn't stress out overmuch to the point where it shows up on her face.
As for eating, Elle doesn't eat much not out of a lack of funds, but because she tends to forget to eat when she's busy. The way business has been, it's almost impossible to find a decent time to get a decent meal.
"I already know what I want," she adds dryly. "The New York Strip here isn't too bad. Just don't ask for anything with the onions. They suck at caramelization around here."
If Elle wants to play it that way, fine. Soma doesn't look up from the menu, absently flipping a page backwards from where he was, finger drifting across the laminate page lazily. He doesn't shrug, he doesn't slam the table, he doesn't turn to smugly stare into her eyes. "It's your criminal record and background check," the Indian answers in his oddly unaccented English.
"That explains why it's thin," Elle says, not missing a beat. Of course, her brain immediately switches gears to the fastest way to brain Soma and shove him out one of the windows should it come down to it. The though process moves smoothly in transition without a hitch. Nevertheless, she doesn't make a move yet, solely to hear what the man has to say.
It's not that her past is particularly odious or embarrassing to her. Having come to grips with her life a little too young has it's definite advantages.
The menu drops to the table with a little *flump* noise as the agent leans back in his chair a little bit to turn and actually smile at Elle somewhat. He doesn't pick up the folder to look at it, either; he's got the gist of it in his head, having a particularly good memory for detail. "Elle Belmounte, 22, originally of Palo Alto, CA. An Aquarius. You know we went to UCLA at around the same time? I don't remember meeting you, however; I was a sociology major." He pauses, clearing his throat. "I thought the bit with the cow was actually pretty damned funny. But you're right. Not much in there. I have to wonder why, considering if someone mugged me with a magical zappy guitar, I'd probably start putting the pieces together once enough people reported it to the police." He lets that hang for a moment, suggesting that Elle herself can fill in the rest.
It is a good question, isn't it? Reports of a crazy beating people with guitars would probably make good press, too, when it comes down to it. How Elle has managed to stay out of the spotlight so long is a definite mystery, which leads down a road that can get fairly unpleasant, complicated, and not particularly one Elle feels like touching on, much less describing.
"What do you want?" She asks, her rasping voice sounding a little more tired. If she wanted a walk down memory lane, she'd go home, and she hasn't been to her home town in quite a while. "Look, I don't want to sound like Batman should be busting in here any minute to tell me that I'm a superstious and cowardly lot, but unless you've got something more important to say, you're honestly wasting my time. If you're here to do business, rule number one with me is to tell me what you want first. I don't do this..." she waves her hand around the area. "And I don't like all this dancing around, either. Spit it out, or I walk."
"Then walk," Soma says, in a bored tone, bringing the front legs of his chair in contact with the floor again. The agent looks... disappointed? Bored maybe. A combination of the two isn't out of the question. "God, I hate that damned attitude. You are exactly like my rich bitch parents who think they are the sun the world revolves around. Your version is just a little less subtle." Bringing one tanned hand to his chin, he scratches his cheek with one hand and then lays both hands on the table.
"I brought you here for a reason. I showed your arrest record for a reason. I am *talking* about your *background* for a reason. I sure as hell didn't walk in with a bunch of policemen at my back for a reason. If you think I'm some kind of stupid bastard who'd do it just to be smug, then go ahead..." And here he waves a hand at the door, indicating it with a shrug. "Get the hell up and leave. If not, sit down, order a fucking steak, and stop pretending you're the only person in the universe that matters. Engage in small talk."
Elle pauses. Then stands. "If you were half the cop you think you are, then you'd know that the only way to get my attention is to bring business to the table first. Clearly, you're a rank ameteur." She may be the same age, but the rift in experience is tremendous. Instinctive ability and a photographic memory go a long way in the business she's in, and in a short time she's managed to get a foothold in a business it takes years for some to master.
Arrogance does play a part, but so does a large amount of analytical thinking. Elle simply doesn't have time or the inclination to be entertained by bright lights or pretty pictures anymore. Her appearance aside and musical tastes aside, jaded doesn't even begin to decribe her anymore.
The result is that she turns and leaves. Her meager criminal record alone wouldn't be enough to justify any real police backup that she couldn't handle anyway. A presumption that she came unprepared would be a poor one at best. Perhaps she's not the best negotiator in the world, but she made it clear in no uncertain terms her purpose and attitudes from the beginning. She honestly just has no need, socially or financially, to handle this kind of aggravation.
The comment doesn't really faze Soma, who leans back again, arms behind his head. "You've halfway convinced yourself of that, too. Pretty amazing... given your background, I'd have thought spoiled children would really piss you off, but you sure have turned into one." Is he needling her? A little, not that he expects it to turn her around. Perhaps some part of him, smarting from the particularly cliched 'rank amateur' line, just wanted to do it, though he'd never admit that himself.
Of course, if his contact is about to walk out the door, he's got no reason to be here either. Reaching down, he brings up a portfolio from its resting place against the leg of his chair and pushes the folder into it. "But I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't meet you halfway even if you are throwing a particularly deadpan sort of tantrum, so. It was a job interview. Knowing why I was here was part of it, at least..." He starts to get up and walk out himself. "Thinking I'm a cop was the big error, though."
Spoiled? Elle stops for a second. Maybe she would have retaliated. Once upon a time, she was sure she would have. She doesn't turn around. Soma's assessment of her doesn't get a second's though. She hears only key words. The rest? Useless detail that doesn't deserve much more than a cursory glance. "What's the job, and what's the pay?" She asks, back still to the man.
The two things that can get her attention. Mild irritation gives way to neutrality again as the switches are tossed in the back of her mind, trying to pull together a picture of what the man wants. As always, curiousity killed the cat, but she can't recall the last time she's ever purred.
"You might not believe it, but I'm not one for the sturm und drang either," Soma says dryly, stopping just behind the rock musician and letting the portfolio in his right hand slap against his leg for a second while he considers his reply. "But if I could just say 'please do (x) for me, I'll wire (y) into your Swiss bank account' I could just send you a freakin' text message." That much is true, at least. What he pointedly does NOT mention are the scores of other informants and mercenaries he's dealt with that DON'T do it Elle's way.
So the story needs some altering -- she wasn't going to work a cop anyway, so far as he can see -- but if Soma is anything, it's adaptable. "The job is surveillance... of a sort. The pay depends on results, but I assure you that millions of readers worldwide with nothing better to do than throw vicarious punches and kicks are writing a five digit check for you as we speak."
The woman turns around. To be honest? She'd have preferred the text message and set an appointment after the fact if she liked what she saw. Nevertheless, he has her full attention now, and she sits back down. "Surveillance? Who's the mark?" Elle knows off hand a half dozen ways to get the kind of information that Soma's looking for, depending who the target is.
The promises of the money also make her brows furrow in thought. The man did say he was a writer. Nevertheless something seems wrong. It's not like she hasn't dealt with questionable employers before, though. If anything, she knows what she needs to do to salve her fears.
"It's not a 'who'," Soma says in response as he sits down. The portfolio gets put on the table, and he resumes his seat as well, picking up the glass of water and sipping it. She's cautious... well, she should be. He hasn't actually said anything with even a hint of concreteness to it yet. "I suppose it's more of a 'what'. Think about stuff like the Neo League and Saturday Night Fights... the media's way of throwing fighting to the masses." He carefully ignores his own role as the 'Fighting Novelist'. Books are art, damnit! "Knowing you, you hate it but you occasionally throw your hat in because it's easy money even though you hate the exposure."
Sighing, he glances out the window for a moment. "Still, the 'story' we get there has only got to be part of the equation. Sure, there's rivalries and competitions but it's just like pro-wrestling: big, flashy, and all for the sake of the audience. I could write about that, but... why? It's stupid, any moron could make it up." He turns back to Elle. "I want to know the *real* story behind the fighters you see on those shows. Gut instinct says there's more going on than the old Hulk Hogan WWF act."
The woman's eyes narrow ever so slightly. Elle expressly stays away from all the melodramatic nonsense that other fighters seem to embroil themselves in. The very idea that she'd expose herself to the simpering whining of your average fighter would make her laugh if her sense of humor hadn't devovled into smiling whenever someone she doesn't care for gets hurt.
Nevertheless, there's one thing that does make her consider the work carefully: the proposition is zero risk. Getting the dirt on other fighters is simple and relatively harmless. Many of the youth fighters have a huge web of 'intrigue' as well. Largely, it's sappy mawkish romance and a lot of hand holding and blushing, but Elle's not immune to recognizing the commercial aspects of all of that. Exploiting available and easily harvestable information and getting paid for it seems easy. Too easy, actually.
"You'd be surprised on what goes on," she says drolly. "You'd probably be a little more disappointed than you'd think over most of them. If you cast a net that wide, you're not going to get any fish."
A look of actual disappointment really does cross Soma's face when Elle makes that comment... if only because he expected her to divine his reason for asking Elle in particular. "Why do you think I came to you," Soma says quietly, taking another sip of water, "in the first place? I'm not from MTV, Ms. Belmounte," the novelist adds in a dry tone. "The petty stuff, the soap opera... I'm not here for that."
Pausing for a moment, he closes his eyes, trying to think of a way to approach this. "I doubt you have, but my first big book, 'Fighting Dirty'... have you read it? It's not great, but it's alright. A stripper wants to get out of her shitty life in Vegas and learns tae kwon do to deal with a stalker. The pit fighting circuit is her way out. That part's cliche, but I spent four months on the southwestern pit fighting 'circuit' to research that book. The nonsense that goes down in pit fighting -- the off-the-record brutality -- is what I wanted to capture in the book. Any fool with a VCR can see Southtown 90210 playing out every week thanks to Howard Enterprises. But that's not what I'm interested in. The question is, can you deliver what I *am* interested in?"
The idea that media exists that isn't utterly mindless and Vapid honestly never crossed her mind. Elle lights up another cigarette. "That's kind of the problem," the woman's voice is flat and matter-of-factual. "A good majority of what you see around here is the melodramatic claptrap you see on TV. The real stories you want are actually few and far inbetween."
She takes a drag, and considers carefully. "But I think there's a few people out there that might be a little more interesting. You're talking about the /really/ damaged ones. Like the insane, crazed people that come to the ring, and it's not an act. People that beleive, for example, that they're honest to goodness witches, or freak kids that are addicted to psychotropic drugs and need them in order to fight."
"In that case, sure. I'll even give you a heads up. I caught a USPL soldier outside of the girls' school three weeks ago. At least, he looked like one. Kid could have been more than seventeed years old, trussed up in one of Schugerg's outfits like he was born to wear it. He got into a fistfight with a girl named Sada something or other." She takes a drag from the cigarette. "So if terrorist soldiers in Japan is more your speed, there you are."
Now that IS news, though Soma is trained well enough not to show TOO much interest. In fact, what he puts on his face is puzzlement: he's not supposed to know what USPL is, even if he's got a case file as big as a house on it in a secure location. "A 'USPL solider'? Other than presuming he's a terrorist from what you just said, I don't think I've heard the term before." He leaves that topic open for more discussion by trailing off, but he's not going to press the issue. "Perhaps. I'm not sure what I'm looking for, but I'll know it when I see it. So the pay is commission that way... sort of. I'll 'retain' you for some amount we can agree upon, with a bonus if you find something I can use. Of course, if you can actually get me INVOLVED in something I can see first hand, that's something else entirely..."
She nods. "I'll see what I can do." Trust? Not really. Elle is confident enough that she can take down Soma again if need be. How does Elle know what USPL is? Well, it wouldn't surprise anyone that knew her that when she has access to information, she's going to use it. Shadaloo's databanks drip with information Man Was Not Meant To Know. "USPL. United States People's Liberation front. It's run by that tinpot despot, Rolento Schugerg. You know. That whackjob that almost nuked Metro City a year ago?"
She takes a sip of water, stubbing out her cigarette. "He used to work with that weirdo, Katana, back in the day when he was with the Mad Gear gang. By the way, not only is Katana not Japanese, he's the biggest retard this side of the planet. The guy has an apartment downtown, with a giant bonsai tree. Can you beleive that?"
Considering that Elle has said more in the past 15 seconds than, perhaps, in the whole of their acquaintance, it's in Soma's best interest to nod, smirking a little at the mention of Katana. This isn't new information for him, but he can *pretend* it is, which is just as good... if not better. Even if Elle is bringing him facts he's already aware of, they're outside confirmations of things, and that doesn't hurt at all. For example, at last check Rolento wasn't using 'USPL'... so perhaps Interpol's files are out of date.
Internal dialogue aside, however, he smirks at the tree reference. "That does seem to have missed the point," he agrees, sipping his water again. They have yet to order food and are probably going to leave without it... that, and the scene from before, are making the maitre'd give the pair funny looks. "Alright then. We'll call it a... loose arrangement for now. Oh, one thing though..." And here, he glances at Elle out of the corner of his eye. "Don't get caught doing anything particularly nasty. My publisher will get antsy, and while I've got plenty of my own money, some of this is coming from my advance on the next book too."
"I don't get caught," Elle says matter-of-factly. It's almost straight out of a comic book, but it's true. She just doesn't do anything stupid enough to get caught. Though ambitious and determined, she's not greedy or shortsighted which goes a long way towards keeping her out of the slammer. She pushes back in her seat and stands again. "Give me contact information. I'll let you know if something interesting comes up. In the meantime, I have other things to do today."
It would appear that the meeting is adjourned. At least to Elle the meeting is adjourned. She reahes into her purse, and drops enough bills on the table to cover two moderately priced meals, plus a 20% tip, if you balance it out right. About $130.00 in total, give or take a few cents through the exchage rate. "Buy yourself something nice," she says to Soma, looking the man over. "Next time, just get down to business when I ask you to, alright?"
If she wants to throw her money away, that's Elle's business; Soma doesn't pick the money up, nor does he shove it back in her hand. Instead he gives her a business card with his publisher's name, and the normal phone number scratched out and a new one -- a local Southtown number -- written in over it. "I have enough nice things," he says airily. She's bound and determined, he figures... bound and determined at every angle to prove she's superior, but hating the concept of superiority at the same time. He finds it curious... but that's all. Grabbing his portfolio, he also gets up to. "As for the rest?" Which could be anything, really. "...we'll see. Have a nice day, Ms. Belmounte."
Superiority has no stake in the matter. She doesn't have to prove her worth to anyone but herself. The fact is, she's not going to leave someone with a bill, which they're invariably going to charge simply for breathing the air. That's just rude, after all. Nevertheless, if Soma wants to think her poor and disadvantaged and is putting up a front? It's all the more welcome for her. She doesn't have any more to say. As it is, there are things to prepare for, and plans to be put into motion. This is just icing as far as she's concerned. She scrapes up the contact information, and is gone.
Log created on 14:24:36 05/13/2007 by Soma, and last modified on 11:02:45 06/29/2007.