Smith International: Jean's Investigation

Overview

Participants

• Jean

Summary

Having caught word of Freya's discovery of waste stored at a warehouse on Wallisville Road, Jean reaches out to one of his contacts, Mitch Powell III, to arrange for the safe disposal of what's there. However, initially, he comes unprepared, and Mitch gives him a list of what he needs to first learn.

Log

(Medina) Mitch Powell is a solidly built man - 20 years of wrestling with dumpsters will of course bulk your physique. And so will a wife that knows how to cook. He's a middle-aged man with a salt and pepper beard trimmed close, and the back of his neck and tops of his forearms are a few sun-damaged shades darker than the rosewood rest of him.

He's wearing some jeans, some classic wheat Timberlands, and a button-up shirt. Teresa is not letting this man out the house with no T-shirt like some kind of slovenly hobo. A quietly cynical, careful hustler, and a deeply tired man with a job as demanding as his and his side hustles, but someone's gotta pay for Keisha and Little Mitch's tuition.

He's here, making lemonade at his table with the splenda packets and the extra slices of lemon he'd asked for, while the wait staff lets it slide.

(Jean) Jean comes in. He's dressed sharply, he always is, even if it's informal. Jeans and a button-down shirt with paisley patterns on it. He makes sure to get his food as well, and mentioned to the staff that he has Mitch's check for this one.

Brisket and pulled pork, a sweet and tangy sauce. Fried onion tanglers. Tall glass that mixes the lemonade with Dr. Pepper. Soon, he's over sitting with Mitch at the table.

"Thanks for coming, Mitch," he says. "How are you doing? Family? Work is ok?"

(Medina) Mitch got himself a combo plate, ribs, brisket, burnt ends, hot sausage links.

"Oh, I'm just glad to get past Halloween! Keshia put off her costume to the last minute and so of course we gotta help her put it together the night before Halloween." He shakes his head at whatever that may have been like, then lets a small laugh escape him at the memory: one of endeared, but tested patience.

"Work is work," he supposes, and he ruminates over some of his ribs. He picks up one of those brown paper napkins to make sure that his food's not leaving specks on his moustache, then asks, "What's goin' on with you?"

<OOC> Jean says, "ICly, all I got is Freya telling me there was a warehouse full of stuff. OOCly, I hope that off-camera she got me all she knows about this, which Jean would then ICly know, but I don't OOCly."

<OOC> Medina says, "She doesn't know a lot, herself, either, but the important parts are already slotted in, no? The location, the problem."

(Jean) "I have heard that there is a place with barrels of waste that should not be there. If I get that to you, can we get in, see what it is, what it would take to get that stuff out of there safely and to the proper disposal site..."

He gives a nod, "Good work comes with bonuses, of course. And off the books work comes with off the books bonuses. Enough for you and for any crew you would need on this one."

(Medina) Mitch pauses mid-bite, rib hovering near his mouth, and his eyes flick up to Jean's face. He sets the rib down carefully on his plate, wipes his fingers on that brown paper napkin real deliberate-like, then leans back in his chair with a soft exhalation that might be a laugh but isn't.

"Mm-hmm." He looks around the restaurant - habit, checking who might be in earshot - then back to Jean. His voice drops lower, not quite a whisper but definitely not carrying past their table. "Barrels of waste. That should not be there." He repeats it like he's tasting the words, seeing if they taste like trouble.

They do.

He picks up his drik, takes a long sip, sets it down. Checks his watch even though he ain't timing nothing. "Now see, Jean..." Another pause, rubbing the back of his neck. "When you say 'waste,' that could mean a lot of things. Could mean some paint cans, motor oil, construction debris...That's one conversation. But the way you sitting there and talking about 'proper disposal site' and 'off the books'..."

He leans forward now, forearms on the table. His voice remains that same steady hush, just on the precipice of conversational volume - camouflage in normalcy, not signaling it's worht listening to, not projecting too far past the table neither.

"That sounds like the kind of waste makes a man wonder what exactly he getting himself into. So let me ask you straight, before we go any further - how bad we talking? Because I got Junior graduating in May, Keshia got her braces tightened next week, and Teresa..." He shakes his head. "Man, I can't be explaining to my wife why someone showing up at the house asking questions."

His eyes are steady on Jean's face now. Not hostile, but definitely measuring.

<OOC> Jean says, "Does Freya know exactly what Waste they are?"

<OOC> Jean says, "Or Jean could just have gone there himself as spider form and looked, oif you don't mind? Because I want to know"

You paged (Freya, Jean) with 'Hi Freya!'

From afar, to (Medina, Freya): Jean waves

You paged (Freya, Jean) with 'I hear you looped in Jean - are there any additional details you would have told Jean beyond whatever Freya's already told them?'

From afar, to (Medina, Jean): Freya waves

To (Medina, Jean), Freya pages: Don't think so..

To (Medina, Freya), Jean pages: So not what kind of waste it is? Just that it's bad?

To (Medina, Jean), Freya pages: Freya isn't sure what kind of waste it is.. She just knows its bad and its eroding concreate heh

To (Medina, Jean), Freya pages: I haven't talked to Jean after the meeting at my apt.. so..

You paged (Freya, Jean) with 'OK!'

<OOC> Medina says, "If you would like to go there in spider form yourself, you can do that next, but let's keep the order of operations clear and consistent."

(Jean) "It's eroding concrete, so something bad. But it is not like chlorine trifluoride, since that would already have been way too energetic. It might be like...you know Robocop? When the van crahsed into barrels of toxic sludge that melted one of the bad guys? I think that it is like that. If you want, I can go and make sure." He thinks a moment, "As far as I know, it is not bodies or people." His voice is soft.

(Medina) Mitch's expression doesn't change much, but something does shift in his eyes. He picks up his lemonade, takes another slow sip, sets it down. The silence stretches out juuuust long enough to be uncomfortable, unless Jean fills it.

"Robocop." Flat, no inflection. Then he leans back in his chair, a soft huff of a jaded laugh escaping him with far more experiences than humor. His carob colored gaze flicks past Jean's shoulder for a second, then his eyes come back, gaze level and direct.

"Jean." He pauses as he collects just how he's going to put this. "I'ma be straight with you, because I think you a solid dude. But right now you sitting here telling me you want my help with some barrels you ain't even seen yourself? You talking about movie references and 'I think' and 'if you want I can go make sure'?"

He shakes his head.

"Do you not actually know what you're dealing with, so you're asking me to walk into something blind? Or you do know what you're dealin' with, and just don't want to be straight with me about it?" He picks up a napkin, wipes his hands again even though they're already clean. "Neither one of those makes me feel real comfortable about getting involved."

He glances at his watch. "I got about twenty more minutes before I need to pick up Keisha from band practice. So here's what I need from you: You been to this place? You seen these barrels with your own eyes? You know what's on the labels, what they smell like, how many there are, who owns the property? If the answer is no, then what you need to do is go look at it yourself first, then call me back when you know what you actually asking me to help with. I don't do business on 'I think' and 'maybe.' Not when we talking about something that melts concrete. You feel me?"

He picks up his rib again, but he's watching Jean's face as he sees how the rest of his lunch break is going to go.

(Medina) Mitch's expression doesn't change much, but something does shift in his eyes. He picks up his lemonade, takes another slow sip, sets it down. The silence stretches out juuuust long enough to be uncomfortable, unless Jean fills it.

"Robocop." Flat, no inflection. Then he leans back in his chair, a soft huff of a jaded laugh escaping him with far more experiences than humor. His carob colored gaze flicks past Jean's shoulder for a second, then his eyes come back, gaze level and direct.

"Jean." He pauses as he collects just how he's going to put this. "I'ma be straight with you, because I think you a solid dude. But right now you sitting here telling me you want my help with some barrels you ain't even seen yourself? You talking about movie references and 'I think' and 'if you want I can go make sure'?"

He shakes his head.

"Do you acutally know what you're dealing with, so you're asking me to walk into something blind? Or you do know what you're dealin' with, and just don't want to be straight with me about it?" He picks up a napkin, wipes his hands again even though they're already clean. "Neither one of those makes me feel real comfortable about getting involved."

He glances at his watch. "I got about twenty more minutes before I need to pick up Keisha from band practice. So here's what I need from you: You been to this place? You seen these barrels with your own eyes? You know what's on the labels, what they smell like, how many there are, who owns the property? If the answer is no, then what you need to do is go look at it yourself first, then call me back when you know what you actually asking me to help with. I don't do business on 'I think' and 'maybe.' Not when we talking about something that melts concrete. You feel me?"

(Jean) "I have not been there, so I will go and get the information and get back to you. I got your lunch here, and once I get the information, I will get back to you with the rest of things, and we can make the rest of the arrangements. Is that satisfactory?" He also pulls out a bill to slide over. "For your trouble," he says, as Mr. Franklin is looking up at Mitch.

(Medina) Mitch looks at the bill Jean slides over. There's a long moment where he just looks at it, not touching it yet, his expression unreadable - and not just because of Jean's nature and the compromised lens for empathy that he has. This man's expression genuinely stands in limbo, neither insulted, nor appreciative, a wall, a mask.

Finally, Mitch picks it up, folds it once, tucks it in his shirt pocket. "Mm-hmm."

He takes another bite of his food, chews slow, lets the silence grow as he swallows that bite on his own time. When he speaks again, his voice is still level, and carries a certain distance that wasn't there before.

"Yeah, that's satisfactory," he concludes. He wipes his hands on the napkin again. "You go look at what you got, you come back with specifics. What's on the labels, how many barrels, what kind of condition they in, where exactly it's at. If you can find out who owns the property, even better. All that."

He picks up his lemonade, takes a sip, sets it down. "And Jean? When you call me back, make sure you SEEN it with your own eyes and know what we dealing with. Because next time we sit down to talk business, I'ma need to know I'm talking to somebody who got his facts straight before he picks up the phone."

It's not quite a threat, not quite a warning, but it's definitely a boundary.

"Enjoy your lunch. I'ma head out, pick up my daughter. Less there's anything else." He moves to stands up, hands on the to-go container he's eating out of.