895/My Heart is Empty

My Heart is Empty
Date of Scene:	11 June 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Hot on the trail of the stolen Gutenburg Bible, Jessica Jones visits Lux. Will the dangerous offer of its mysterious bartender be too good to refuse?
Cast of Characters:	Jessica Jones, Lucifer

---

Jessica Jones has posed:
It's certainly not unusual for Lux to receive new visitors. Tonight, it has one. The woman currently putting away an entire bottle of whiskey at the bar is a little more dressed than some of the women who come here. She's in a halter-neck jumpsuit in black that's certainly appropriate enough for a nightclub. Her make-up is a lot lighter too, and the only thing she's done with the deep, dark fall of her hair is brush it, parting it on the side. It tumbles down her bare shoulders, concealing them as well as a shawl might. Unlike many of the ladies here she doesn't seem to be looking for a lot of attention, either. Indeed, she has the attention of the only person in the place who she cares about-- the bartender.

Then again, one who is particularly observant might note that she isn't as deep in her cups as she seems. Sometimes she's listening to things she hears in here. Sometimes she isn't. There are only one or two conversations that have made her pause with her glass, made her nurse it instead of down it. She doesn't turn her head towards them; she doesn't give any other sign. She just stops, briefly pays attention, and then drinks again when whatever has caught her interest moves on once more.

Other than that, however, she's not making trouble.

Lucifer has posed:
"Oh, wow, you're really going for broke here," the bartender says, squinting at Jessica. He brushes the back of his hand against his head, hemming, hawing, looking at a clock nearby as he stalls for time.

"Twenty-three year old Ron Zacapa, dry vermouth, and a teaspoon of Maraschino juice. Burn wood chips-- oak for bite, cedar for sweet-- and douse with rum." He holds a finger up, searching his memory. "Burn the wood chips to make a smoke infuser, stire the ingreidents into a glass, strain it all into the infuser, stir gently, serve /on ice/ in a lowball, and provide one light cigar," he says, pressing his fingers against the bartop and smiling confidently at Jessica and the Bartender's Guide to Cocktails in her hands.

"That is a Japanese Rum Martinez." He pushes her drink towards her. "That's two for two," he says smugly, taking a little sip of a short glass of tequila, served neat.

Jessica Jones has posed:
"So it is," Jessica Jones says with a smirk. "But where's my cigar?"

She takes the drink, and she sips it. "Damn. You could really get me used to these fancy cocktails." Normally she just drinks it like it's battery acid, but this? "Like really, really used to them." She salutes him with the drink and continues to enjoy it instead of simply taking it straight down her throat, a minor miracle in and of itself. Her brown eyes sparkle with a hint of rare mischief-- though he might not know how rare it is. Her lips curve into a smirk. "Course, if you keep that up I'm going to throw down with asking if you know how to make a Commonwealth, and then you'll have to murder me I'm sure." She's not really going to do that to him. Unless of course he wants to show off and get it done, in which case she'll drink that, too.

Lucifer has posed:
Almost before she's done speaking, the bartender makes a pass with his hands, and a cigar appears-- neatly clipped, almost a cigarillo and perfect for a short smoke with a cocktail. He balances a gold Zippo in his hands, ready to strike a light for Jessica.

"Know how? Sure," the bartender tells Jessica. "No one's stumped me yet. That said, you're gonna need to frontload your tab before I make one-- and better not order it during rush hour."

Someone bellies up to the bar and orders a pair of beers. Putting two tall ale glasses in one hand, the bartender hooks the taps with a fingertip and pours two perfect draughts almost in one motion, barely bothering to watch the perfect half-inch of foam head building.

"There's an art to drinking fine liquor, and it mostly involves having enough money to /afford/ good liquor," the bartender remarks, sliding the beers to the othe customer without bothering to collect any money. Apparently, he know them and the name on their tab. Remarkably, he slingshots them a good way around the curve of the horseshoe-shaped bar without spilling a drop.

"You can muddle enough sugar into Wild Turkey to make a passable cocktail out of it, but the real good drinks, you have to start with quality."

Jessica Jones has posed:
Jessica puts the cigar in her mouth, leans forward, and accepts the light. She takes a long drag and lets out a long sigh of pleasure. It's the sigh of someone who used to be a pack-a-day smoker who mostly quit, but who still really, //really// likes the occasional smoke. She closes her eyes and really savors her first inhale of that, too. She used to buy cheap cigarettes. This thing? She might have to take up cigars.

"Understood," she says with amusement, on the matter of front-loading her tab. She watches as this man creates perfect draughts, not missing that. "Apparently you're the world's most perfect bartender. Maybe because you've got a passion for it I've never seen before." she says, impressed. "Where have you been hiding all my life?"

It can be hard to find a //good// bartender, let alone some of //this// calibre. And she takes her drinking so very seriously. This man might have just convinced her to go upscale instead of haunting the pubs and dive bars she'd been favoring.

Even if she does have to dress up.

She does pull out $200 cash, sliding it across the bar towards whatever her tab and his tip is, since he's hinting. An hour of work, in her line of work, just for this exquisite booze experience. //Worth it.//

Lucifer has posed:
The bartender takes the cash. Counts it out. And then he gives her back /change/. And a fair amount of it, to boot, consider she'd had three stiff drinks before he'd even gotten to chatting with her and she'd tried to trip him up. Twice.

Apparently, the cocktails here are far from overpriced.

"And you'll have to come back tomorrow. I don't have any tonka bean or taro leaves," he tells Jessica.

"So, miss... Jones," he says, holding her ID in his fingertips. Wait, how did he get that? WHEN did he get it? "Jessica? That's a pretty name. What brings you in today, anyway?" he inquires amicably, flicking the edge of the laminate with a fingernail, just out of her easy reach. "Are you looking for a new watering hole, or am I being scouted for Bartender's Monthly?" he inquires, his hazel eyes dancing.

Jessica Jones has posed:
How //did// he get that? Jessica's own brown eyes sharpen for just a moment. She frowns down at her wallet. She must have pushed it over with the cash without thinking about it. The suspicion-- which jumps to her rather easily-- fades.

"I'm //always// looking for a new watering hole," she says dryly, and that's nothing but absolute truth. Usually she has to rotate between them, because she gets too drunk, and too rowdy, and she gets thrown out. She's been inspired to be really well-behaved at this one. The Bartender's Monthly comment also produces a quirk of a smirk. As does his demonstration that yep...he knows the Commonwealth, too.

She also hesitates. He's really easy to talk to. Like //really// easy. The hint of mischief in her eyes says she might just tell him she's looking for //company//, even though when she walked in here she'd given no such signs of that. Indeed, she'd ignored most of the advances she had received, before he began his amazing performance behind that bar. She takes another drag on the cigar, because she is actually here for work. Saying too much could be a problem. Saying too little could mean a missed opportunity.

Then again, the whole talking to the bartender to get information bit is rather cliche'd.

The drag on cigar and drink gives her time to come up with an approach. "Heard about this place from a friend of mine, thought I'd check it out. He doesn't seem to be here tonight though."

Lucifer has posed:
The bartender nods, listening attentively to her every word. Despite the people bellying up to the bar and the rare drink he prepares, he always has an ear cocked to Jessica. And what's more, he seems to be genuinely /listening/ to the slender, darkling dame.

"Almost everyone who's anyone comes through here eventually," the bartender agrees, putting her ID in a paper napkin. He folds it, then folds it again, the whole time keeping it in clear view of Jessica and the napkin always touching the lacquered wood surface. "But, we're not always here at the same time." He folds the napkin again... then again... then at least two times too many, until it's smaller than the ID card could be if it were inside of it. Just for good measure, he tears the napkin into scrap, letting the little fragments pile up in front of Jessica.

"Tell me about your friend?" he inquires of her, helpfully. "Maybe I've seen him come in or go. Were you meeting up for drinks or was it a professional thing?" he inquires.

Jessica Jones has posed:
Magic tricks now? Jessica is amused...but she checks her wallet and...nope, not there. She quirks an eyebrow at him...where the Hell is her driver's license?

"You sure you shouldn't be working a stage in Vegas? What's your name, anyway?"

She really is growing impressed. Impressed enough to care about the identity of the man behind the bar? This is a night she ought to circle on her calendar. In red.

She stirs the fragments of the napkin with a finger as if she might find it there, but ultimately decides she's not //that// concerned yet. "Aaron Klein."

Unlike Jessica, who arguably is //not// anybody, Aaron Klein is. A collector of rare books, both legitimately and illegitimately obtained. One who kept his ear to the ground of the clandestine world of art and antiques might have heard his name as one of three bidders on a volume that was stolen from the New York Public Library. The Gutenberg Bible has gone missing, though that's very hush hush. Right now, they're displaying a fake, and the thieves are looking for just the right buyer, basically holding a protracted and clandestine auction through various channels. Given this bible has additional history and lore attached to it thanks to everything from the stories that people had to take their hats off to view it in the early part of the century to the fact that it's been tied to the lore of half a dozen Biblical artifacts, including a story about the Arc of the Covenant itself, the bidding is up to well over $5.5 million.

Jessica Jones is not worth $5.5 million. She's probably not even worth $4000, if you get right down to it. But then, if he could get her driver's license...

It's not like her PI's license wasn't one fold over. Furthermore, it's not like her name is entirely unknown.

Several months ago, a man mind controlled a bunch of people on the docks into fighting one another to the death. Jessica snapped his neck to stop him. The story hit the papers. She got off scott free. A lot of people hail her as a hero. Others say she's a murderer who shouldn't be walking the streets. A fair amount of the population just doesn't care, of course, but...it's a good bet she might have chosen to go by a different name had her ID not ended up in the bartender's hand somehow, especially if she really is here working //that// particular case. It's certainly one that could get just about anyone killed.

Lucifer has posed:
"Oh, I work Vegas most weekends. I just fly to New York so I can live the fast paced double-life as a bartender at an upscale lounge, listening to bored socialites flitting from beau to beau." He waits until she's done pushing the scraps around, and he leans one elbow on the bar top. With his index finger, he pushes the napkin pieces into array, one at a time and in no hurry.

"Or the old businessmen griping about this modern, fast paced world and how being white and wealthy just isn't as fun as it used to be."

"Mister Klein, however-- I do believe he might turn up here in the next day or two," the bartender says, cryptically. "I could probably pass a message to him. Are you hoping to ask him for work?" he inquires, one brow tilting. "Or is he part of the job?"

The bartender folds his arms, fingers tucked under his elbows, which puts his head on level with Jessica's. He purses his lips, looks down at the paper scraps, and blows a gentle exhalation. The scraps flitter away to revealing her driver's license underneath them.

Jessica Jones has posed:
Jessica actually grins when he does this trick, her eyes sparkling with a //very// rare delight. Really, the grin is rare too. As is the relaxation around this person. Strange, because he still hasn't offered her his name. She picks it up, inspects it, shakes her head and tucks it away. Customer for life, because while she isn't exactly //happy// here-- happy is something foreign to this woman-- she's certainly a hell of a lot less //unhappy//, and that's something.

She considers his words. "Mmm, no need to pass a message," she says carefully. "He hates that sort of thing." She has no idea if he hates that sort of thing or not, but this guy passing a message would definitely be disasterous. For her. "I'll just keep an eye out for him. It's not like I'm going to turn down more reasons to hang out here. I'm not really in his line of work, so no, not asking for work, I promise."

Not realizing just how very much she's given away already, she breezily blows past the bit about how he's part of the job, but that's pretty much answer enough in and of itself. She pulls an ashtray over so she can drop some of the cigar's ashes into it.

Lucifer has posed:
"Well, Miss Jessica Jones," the bartender says, resting his fingertips together. He dithers on the edge of decision, his hands steepled in front of his face and rocks his shoulders back and forth. Neatly manicured fingertips form a low frission as he mulls options over.

The decision comes with a clasping of his hands, his voice low enough that it's likely difficult to hear more than a few feet away.

"I happen to know of two ... clients, who are members here," the bartender says, his tone deceptively casual. "And they're working... mmm ... at cross-ends, for the same goal. A book, which happened to go missing, recently. Fairly old-- very rare and valuable," the bartender says, rolling his empty shot glass in a neat circle with a finger balanced on the rim.

"Now, that might put an erstwhile investigator in an awkward position. Two contracts, and all," he says. "Hard to say which one you heard first, and we have some pretty strict rules here about accepting contracts from Club members. So, if the book were to be -found-... well, in this case, management would pay a pretty handsome finder's fee to be the ones to auction it off to a deserving home," he tells Jessica, one brow hiking pointedly.

"Five percent of the auction price. Good motivation for any vigilant derring-do-gooder to track down the people who stole it to begin with."

Jessica Jones has posed:
Jessica goes very very still as he just starts telling her all about it. She slowly puts down her cigar. The glass in front of her, so lovingly enjoyed, forgotten now. She watches him.

Well, the gig is certainly up. He knows what she's doing here.

And apparently, is willing to offer her a butt ton of money to find the book and turn it over to him, instead of whomever she was going to turn it over to in the first place. She mentally does the math on 5% of even the current price of the thing. It's more money than she's ever seen in her life. It's more than enough to solve every problem she's ever had. She could live out her days in the lap of luxury, drinking and smoking herself into all kinds of oblivion. She's not such a good soul that it's not incredibly tempting. The brief moment of avarice certainly flashes in her eyes before she beats it right back with a stick, summoning the better nature that does live in there.

Her tone is grudging and her face guarded as she lowers her voice. "I've already got motivation. I'm not working on behalf of either of those guys. I'm already working on behalf of the rightful owners of the thing," she says, and warily. Working...for a $200 an hour sum that seems damned paltry by comparison to the jaw-dropping offer she just heard, but...accepting any other contract would be beyond wrong.

It's not smart to admit it, probably, but...she's starting to get the very real sensation that he //already knows// and she's got nothing to lose by just speaking straight.

Now she's not at all sure who she's talking to. Not just a bartender, not just some dude who flies down to Vegas and does good magic tricks. The sensation she's feeling is very like that of someone who just stepped into quicksand, who feels that quicksand closing rapidly above her head, and who heard once one should go still in such circumstances but is not entirely sure if that's right.

Lucifer has posed:
The bartender watches Jessica work through it. Struggling through that temptation, that awful, /awful/ temptation. Taking his utterly pragmatic, simple solution, married to a buttload of money and all the implied side benefits that go along with doing a 'favor' for this... place. Whatever it is. But it's the sort of place that even the hardest thugs don't stir the shit inside the property. When she quietly rejects that offer in favor of doing the right thing, the bartender smiles at her.

And as charmingly dapper and suave as he is, his smile is better than bright. It's sunshine breaking through a cloudy sky. Warm cocoa and a hot fire after playing in the snow. Sleeping in on the weekend with a thick comforter and hot socks right out of the dryer.

For just a moment, it's almost like a literal halo of light surrounds Jessica. Not a ring around her head-- just a ray of sunshine inside, though the eye doesn't adjust to it.

And then it's gone, and the bartender is nodding at her. "I can respect that," he remarks. "You've already taken a Contract." There's some weight to those words. "And you're sticking with it. In that case, you should probably know that there are some talented people working for other interested parties," he says. All business again. "You'll have your hands full. But bring no harm to anyone in the Club, and no one will bring harm to you," he assures her. "There are a lot of talented, knowledgeable people who roost here. Folks who barter and deal with 'special' merchandise," he explains, eyes dancing. "Getting information from them might be tricky. But--" he raises a finger off the bar's surface. "If you remind them about the Rule about 'see nothing, say nothing'... you'll find that you don't overplay your hand."

Jessica Jones has posed:
Oh god. That sensation.

It's something forgotten. Something she hasn't felt since she was a child in her mother's arms, a few years before being a teenager turned her surly, a few years more before the accident that would take them and alter her forever.

Like liquid happy.

That's what happy feels like.

It makes her heart soar, and then ache a little as soon as it's gone, but there's not a lot she wouldn't do to feel that again. She steels herself. That sensation is more tempting than a trillion dollars wrapped up in a bow. That sensation alone...she'd do a lot to feel that again. Holy crap on a stick.

Or was it ever really there?

She shakes her head a little to clear it, then picks up the drink and takes a more generous sip of it than she had before, listening to every word out of his mouth. Listening to how he seems to capitalize the word contract, as if it has way more weight for him than for others.

These are good, fair terms, as it is. "I don't go looking for fights," she promises him, and it seems to be true. They do come to her with alarming regularity, but hers is the business of words, questions, and observations, not bringing harm to others. "See nothing, say nothing," she repeats. "I'll remember. Thanks."

Lucifer has posed:
"I'll let you get to work then, Miss Jessica Jones," the bartender says, breaking the spell between them as she nods her thanks and gets back to business. "Bartenders are supposed to listen more than they talk, right? I've given the wise one too many words, I'm sure," he says, with a grin more crooked than anything else.

"Be careful out there," he tells her, drifting down the bar to tend another customer-- and then he turns back, flickering a wink. "And don't forget about your Commonwealth, tomorrow," he reminds her.

Jessica Jones has posed:
"Who //are// you?"

It's a sort of shocked question now, not the casual request after his name that she'd given before. But his wink produces the edges of a slight smile. She nods...she won't forget, and she won't forget to front-load her tab beforehand. She slides off the stool...if he doesn't want to answer, if instead he slips off to his next customer, she won't force the issue, and she might well go and work the room with drink and cigar in hand...but the question slips out all the same.

She wouldn't be good in her line of work if she didn't ask questions, after all, and this guy? This guy is certainly worthy of more than just basic curiosity.

Lucifer has posed:
"I'm the bartender, of course," the fellow says, flashing a regular, dazzlingly bright grin at the slender detective. "Who /else/ would I be?"

And on that, he turns back to the other patrons.