7903/Gotham City: The Florist Job

Gotham City: The Florist Job
Date of Scene:	16 June 2019
Location:	Iceberg Lounge, Central Heights
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Turtle, Harley Quinn

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Turtle has posed:
The Turtle was a well known name among the thieves guilds and crime rings of the Deep South, and when a Miami cartel affiliate asked for a contact that could be used to deal with the vigilantes infesting the Gringo lands, his alias was offered by a pleasant man in a white suit. A sweating, overweight southerner wasn't always your friend, particularly when he was wearing white, had a cowboy hat, and had a bolo tie.

Unless he was a lawyer with a drinking habit.

The Turtle was at the Iceberg Lounge, having entered through the back, after arranging things with Penguin's gang through a local fence. He sat at a table, with a reinforced metal chair, Turtle's non-stop paranoia having demanded he wear his armored green suit. It looked odd, even by Gotham standards, but odd was hardly a concern to a Southerner up North.

The word in the underworld was that the Turtle was visiting a man at Blackgate Penitentiary, with a safehouse in the Tricorner. Indeed, Turtle had a safehouse in the Tricorner set up, but it was empty. His true purpose was a missive offered to Harley Quinn for her assistance, the message delivered through an e-mail sent to a black market animal shelter that happened to carry hyena medication. In case of disaster, Turtle had a van out back, with a GPS ratcheted to the dashboard and a preprogrammed route that led by the Narrows and west out of the city, to take advantage of local construction on the bridge that he could pummel right through to cause a traffic snarl.

Turtle ate from a seafood pasta plate, chewing scallops. When visiting the Atlantic coast, a Southern man of eminence was sure to sample the seafood.

Harley Quinn has posed:
"The who?" Harley was reading the missive actually at her vet when she flipped the paper over and back again. She reached up to scratch her blonde hair before reaching down to scritch Bud's head. "I know, I know, don't let him eat another toaster. But he was jus' so cute it was difficult ta wanna stop 'im." And she folds up the note to tuck away in the side of her short shorts before heading off to the Iceberg Lounge.

Coming inside with Bud, not on a leash mind you, she walks in with what might be considered her more 'civilian' clothes. Even though she's clearly still Harley Quinn and even has the white makeup on her face. A bit of a look around and she loudly proclaims, "Ohhhhhhhh, I got it. The shell, it makes all the difference." This to herself, but aloud so people can hear her but most just sort of dismiss what Harley says. Either in fear of causing her to get angry suddenly or even worse, her to strike them up in conversation that turns weird fast.

To the table where the Turtle is eating Harley puts down the paper she got from her 'vet' and she sits down on a chair, and leans forward. "Alright buster, I ain't sure who ya are or why yer writin' letters, but, thanks, I ain't recieved a letter in a while. The last one I made I cut out letters from a magazine to inform someone kindly of their missing husband. Never heard back on that one." A pause, "Come ta think of it, a woman hired me fer that one. I'm now figurin' she probably was hirin' me ta murder her husband - maybe fer another? Good fer her, that guy didn't even take one screw to the toes before he was bawlin'."

Another pause as she sits there, leaning over on the table, and Bud kind of takes up a hunkered sitting position next to her.

Turtle has posed:
The Turtle looks up with blaise eyes and lowered eyelids, in the dim twinkling light of the Lounge, as Harley and the hyena enter the club. Swallowing his mouthful of scallop, marinara, and linguine, he sets his fork and spoon down, and lifts his cloth napkin, wiping his slick, greedy lips, even though the gesture is unnecessary. The Turtle is a petulant eater, a mark of high class despite his humble background and criminal means.

A southerner isn't a gentleman, unless he considers etiquette across class.

"Hello, Miss Harley," comes a slow, faintly rasping voice, the sound of an old man who has seen so much and cried himself out of tears, beaten and bruised and triumphant. "I am happy you came tonight. It would be a shame if I had to eat alone."

He offers a sad, wisty look, a bit of priest to him, putting the napkin down. He lifts a bell glass of red wine, the cheap stuff, and sips it, looking at Harley with an appraising consideration.

"I'm not asking you for anything gristly today, Miss Harley, merely a courtesy between affairs of North and South. I'm from Central City, Missouri, you could say things work slower down there, unless the Flash is involved."

He sets his glass down. "A courtesy, always includes a gratuity, of course."

Harley Quinn has posed:
The woman across the table has never really been of a high class nature. She's not from a wealthy family, never spent long enough as a psychiatrist to learn the ins and outs of high speech, and she hadn't traveled much before - well, she took the dive straight into insantiy. She smiles though, and laughs a little bit, "I like the way ya speak Mister. I ain't sure what yer goin' on about so much, but it sounds nice."

And tilting her head a bit to the side, then a bit more, then a bit more till her head is almost 90 degrees to the left she asks, "If I'm followin' yer jus' up here from yer city ta be sayin' Hello? But ain't up here fer no other reason?" Letting her head go back up to straight up and down, she shrugs a bit, "Okay, well ya sure got my vote. Ain't nobody really ever ask me permission fer nothin'."

A question in her tone before she squints, "Was that Johnny fella or Jim-bo, or Jimmy, or somethin', was he settin' me up? Playin' a prank on me or somethin'? They jus' call me the Queen of Crime here in Gotham. Nobody really respects that tho'."

Confusion is overwhelmed by an urge to scritch Bud's head as she leans onto a single hand help up by her elbow on the table, "The way fellas do things up 'ere is - jus' do 'em. If yer askin' fer help on something I'm sure I'd be able ta. I ain't got nothin' on my calendar" A shrug, "I ain't even got a calendar."

Turtle has posed:
"Crime isn't what it used to be, but because of that, it's becoming grander every day," Turtle eloquates, looking at Bud with a smile, making sure to look at his nose, not the eyes, offering a little wiggle of his fingers. "What does not break us, makes us bitter, Miss Harley. Stronger, that's up to us."

He sets his glass down and produces a loud, long sigh, leaning back in his heavy suit and his even heavier build. "Business, is always the discussion that follows pleasantry. Otherwise, I'd be pulling a chain in the watercloset instead of the church."

He chuckles, looking down at his plate, before he picks up his fork to gesture, resting his wrist on the table.

"I've got a man out of Miami, a drug runner, that needs a shipment of helicopter parts destroyed. My specialty is dealing with vigilantes, and this shipment is being stored in Gotham City, so the Bat keeps the stuff safe. Superman doesn't permit a narco-war in his city, so they're using this here berg. I can't take the entire swarm of bats in my belfry, but I know how to plan around them. I could use help. He's paying top money out of a bank register in the Keys, south of Miami. Odd heat, the islands, they only care if someone hears about their fingers. We do this nice and subtle, don't tip off anyone that we're hitting the DEA, they don't lift our cash. They deal coke too, you know."

Harley Quinn has posed:
"Ohhhh, don't I know it. When I was growin' up what I was always seein' a nice sexual assualt or a torture session of a hostage on the news. These days it's all capes an' end of the world. I ain't wantin' the world to end, Mister Turtle. Where else could I have so much fun?" Harley comments and sits up a little straighter with all the upper class talk, and she smiles more, "Ya sure are nice. I mean, comin' in here, like this, talkin' instead of holdin' up the place."

She listens more to the idea and the conversations, she can't stop her face from giving off expressions so when you tell her about a chain in the watercloset instead of the church, she is clearly confused with one eye wide open, the other one squinting, and her mouth quirked sideways. Then you carry on, and she lets her expression go back to more normal, though she's inquisitively picking at the top of the table with her fingernail, staring right at the top of it.

It's probably very difficult to get Harley's full attention, but she's listening, "Uh huh. So, yer tryin' ta destroy some parts fer a whirly bird an' ya needin' help against any trouble. I'd be willin' ta help ya fer sure. I ain't much fer plannin', I'm more like the big guns fer smashin'. I bring my own mallet, and or baseball bat, plus a lotta toys. Speakin' of which, I ain't got no real use fer money so much. Though if I do this fer you, coudl ya get me a couple hundred teddy bears, the real soft kind, an' the same number of remote controlled cars? That'd be swell."

Turtle has posed:
"The world never ends, Miss Harley, it just takes new forms. Life gets worse as you get older, Miss Harley, take it from me." He pauses, curling up red-tinted linguine with his fork and spoon, a shrimp speared by the prongs of the fork. He puts the dish in his mouth, his eyes shifting back upwards. Chewing, his eyebrows perk upwards, before he rapidly swallows, demonstrating his prodigous ability to eat rapidly. Evidence of hard time in a prison. "But it always seems easier, too."

"I operate on a three-piece interlocking scheme, of my work. I need you for an element. I operate with a cover as a diversion, a thrust as the true target, and a bayou to fall back into to fade into the water, as a contingency. If you're willing to work as my cover, I'll give you your gift, as a present between future friends."

He offers an aged, wrinkled smile, his weathered cheeks evidencing what may have been dimples once. Lifting his glass of wine, he takes a long sip from the side, showing the left side of his face. "So, Miss Harley? Will you be my batgirl?"

Harley Quinn has posed:
"It don't? I'm pretty sure it could..." Harley starts but leaves it at that. I mean, she's had plans she was helping with specifically to end the world before. Destruction. But ... she nods her head a few times, "I guess. Good ol' days are gone when it was just Bad guys an' Robbers. Indians an' Horses." A sigh as she shrugs, "Oh well, gotta adapt wit' the times I guess."

And she listens again as Turtle talks about his layered approach, "Ya really do -all- that work before ya go in an' bust up the place? That seems like a lotta work. I mean, I pulled off that bus scheme not too long ago, an' that was hard enough, jus' drivin' all morning." A wide-eyed look of exasperation comes to her as she shakes her head some more indicating her opposition to such planning.

Then she turns her gaze on Turtle with wide-eyed excitement instead, "Oh really? I get ta dress up like Batgirl?! Ya swear? I mean, I'd do a few alterations ta make sure I'm givin' it my all. But wow, I'll get ta work on that as soon as I leave here. I've always wanted ta dress up like one of them Batfamily babes. They're pretty, that's fer sure, an' what a surprise when I bop a police officer right in the teeth an' run off. They'll be lookin' fer the Bats! Why I didn't do this before I ain't too sure... that's a great plan. I love playin' dress up."

Turtle has posed:
The Turtle puckers his lips and his brows knit together simultaneously, at Harley Quinn's misunderstanding of the term 'batgirl', understandable of course.

"So that's never occured to any of you in Gotham City? Just dress up like Batman and punch a cop, one at a time, until all the cops hate Batman?"

The Turtle chuckles and relaxes his face, as he counts out the bill and leaves a healthy tip. He scoops up a chunk of purple-tailed calamari and chews it, enjoying the sweet flavor of squid mixed with the low piquant tang of finely made marinara.

"I'll send my direct e-mail account, from my base of operations I've set up in Bludhaven, to the dropbox I used to bring you here. They'll have a bison steak ready, that's being delivered right now, for Bud there." He grins at Bud, showing his chapped white teeth. "Bud could use some health food, couldn't he."

There's a long grunt, as he stands from the table. "All I need is for you to try to steal the parts, and then, when the superheroes come up, I'll destroy them, so they can't have them. That'll be the story, at least."

Harley Quinn has posed:
"Well, it ain't occcured ta them capes neither ta dress up like us an' come after us ta get us all angry. Besides, my color scheme is different than most of 'em." Harley gives reason for not doing some basic tomfoolery with costumes. "Plus, there's the whole idea of it all. Me, dressin' up like one of 'em an' lyin' all the time? That'd be hard on me, I'm a pretty honest gal."

Though the conversation about email and things is fine, she listens and nods her head, adn then she smiles, "Oh, thanks mister. After that toaster I ain't too sure if he's eaten much. Well, there was the bagel that was inside of there, but I think it was one of them everythin' bagels an' I know that can't be good fer him." Another scritch of Bud's head, "Plus, with Lou stealin' his food all the time, I keep tellin' him. If yer gonna let Lou take yer food, ya ain't gonna eat. Tryin' ta raise my boys right and all."

As Turtle gets up though, Harley offers a quick finger waggle wave, "Well, it was sure nice ta meet you Mister Turtle sir, an' yer plan sounds pretty good. Jus' count me in. I still gotta work on that costume, so give me a coupla days."