946/Going to See a Man about a Plane

Going to See a Man about a Plane
Date of Scene:	14 June 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Lucifer, Lady Blackhawk

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Lucifer has posed:
Zinda's plan to re-establish a dream team of ace pilots was facing one major hurdle: a sincere lack of cashflow.

It wasn't even just getting the aviators. Many pilots would likely fly for free, just to see what's over the horizon. But the cost of mechanics, fuel, support staff, even maintaining an airway were daunting enough. It'd take a multibillionaire to finance it out of pocket, and then-- where does one draw the line between 'selfless service' and just being a well-intentioned mercenary?

But a rumor had reached Zinda's ears during her time in the various bars and VFW outlets around the tri-cities. There was a Club-- Club Lux-- that catered to 'the underground'. An entire economy borne out of that place. Gun runners, covert mission support, fake passports... an entire criminal empire not borne out of Lux, but /supported/ from it. Once in a while one might see a gold coin being passed in exchange for services, out in the alleys and dark corners. A 'small favor' one might call it; the exchange of a different currency for a different economy.

There was a lot of speculation about Lux, its owner, the management, the goals-- some said it was a Mafia cover, others said it was a private criminal syndicate. Some suggested it was a government operation. No one could agree on any one thing but this: If there was anywhere in the world where a person might know how to help Zinda Blake get her hands on the materiel to support her dreams, it was the man who runs Lux.

The Club's interior speaks of the sort of power it takes to become that whispered name. Luxury, but discretion. Spacious but private. A dance floor and a band caters to the youthful hedonists who use Lux as a place to blow off steam, while the nooks and crannies offer seating and quiet places for men and women of power to sit and talk and plot. The theme is vaguely Middle-Eastern-- Moroccan? Turkish? But with modern conveniences and an artistic touch that makes it the height of luxurious cocktail lounges.

When Zinda arrives, the club is at a quiet lull, and there's no one at the bar except for the bartender. Wearing a red shirt with his sleeves rolled up and a bold, black and white striped tie, he's busy wiping down the lacquer and making things ready for the next 'surge' in business.

Lady Blackhawk has posed:
    Despite her trademark "Rough around the edges" reputation, Zinda knew how to put in an appearance. She knew how to work a little black dress at least, and well she's got the figure to pull off just about whatever the hell she wants to. It doesn't hurt of course, that she knows it. Slipping up to the bar with a grin and a wink, before gently giving the counter top a gentle rap-rap-rap of her knuckle. "Aye Chief, Old fashioned if you please and don't hold the fruit on my account."And a pause as she finally slips up to a barstool.

    Contract negotiation wasn't normally her gig, back in the day? Yeah Blackhawk and the old man had handled this kind of thing, she was just there to fill the graves as it were. However this isn't the second world war, unfortunately. A girl's got to learn a trick or two if she's going to survive out here, peacetime is terrible. "I trust this establishment doesn't feature a prohibition on smoking, yeah?" Better to ask, as she slips that neat black handbag into her lap. Looking for all the world like a very pretty blonde, left to her own devices which surely must be a sin in somone's book. That is of course, the whole point.

Lucifer has posed:
"An old fashioned for the lady and drag an orchard through it," the bartender says, flashing a professionally friendly smile at Zinda. He digs out rye, filtered water, and sets about muddling sugar and bitters into it. It's shaken on ice and poured over a spherical ice ball in a lowball glass, and then for garnish, he takes a wedge of orange and snaps his fingers near it. It's a little close-up magic; the citrus ignites with a sharp, pleasant aroma and he stirs it into the glass, then hands her the drink on a cocktail napkin.

"Seven-fifty, please. Cash only," he adds. Odd that they don't take plastic, but the price sure can't be beat.

"Smoke all you like," he tells her, smiling tolerantly and shaking his head. "Liquor board isn't going to come in and complain. Are you just here for a drink, miss?" he inquires, giving her an appraising once over. "Or are you here socially?"

Lady Blackhawk has posed:
    "Professionally, potentially."She corrects, sliding a folded ten across the counter with a nod. Hooking a finger in the rim of that glass to drag it over, before finally hoisting it up for a sniff. An appraisal it passes, as evidenced by the sip and a smile which follows. "You know darlin, considering how rare it is to find a joint that even uses the right glass these days? You're a prince of a man, joint's lucky to have you."and well that done, she has other vices to indulge.

    The Silver cigarette case, and an ancient brass field lighter to get one of those yellow papered things going. Who else smokes Gauloise this side of the pond, not many certainly but for the moment she's quite content to get comfortable. Eyeball the exits, take a survey of the rogue's gallery present.

Lucifer has posed:
"Ahah," the fellow apologizes, taking the ten and making it disappear into a pocket. He grins again at her compliment-- he's got an easy, reflexive smile, the sort that can change the temperature in a room. His nationality is hard to place, with skin that's either swarthy or just well-tanned and naturally thick black hair with a five-o'clock stubble at his jawline. He's tall enough to be European but not thick enough to be Russian, built lean through his narrow hips.

For the most part, the crowd around her doesn't scream 'professional criminal'. Suits and dresses, mostly, clothing ranging from formalwear to casual business. One man with a gun, but he looks like a bodyguard more than anything, arms folded and not listening to the covnersation at the table he's backed up to.

"Four exits," the bartender tells Zinda. He catches her eye and smiles. "The main door, a fire exit-- there's a service door behind the bar," he says, jerking a thumb towards the discreetly concealed kitchen area, "and the hotel upstairs can be access through that stairway," he says, nodding behind her.

"/I/ like the service kitchen exit," he remarks, cleaning a glass with a damp rag while he talks. "Lots of cover, only employees back there, and you can probably steal a snack or something while you're running." He winks at Zinda companionably, clearing picking up on the cut of her jib.

"So, here professionally. Are you looking for work, or looking for help?"

Lady Blackhawk has posed:
    "Good eye, Chief."She returns casually, sipping quite casually. "I'm a dog looking for top shelf, know anyone looking?"Which is, well out of date. Maybe fifty years ago, that's how a professional Merc looking for high dollar work might introduce themselves but today? Not that she seems put off, but then again that lighter of hers? Yeah those brass petrol lighters haven't been produced since the thirties, French Air force issue if we're going to get particular. Worth a pretty penny on the collector's market, but thats beside the point.
    "Kitchens tend to have scalding hot water, oil and a wealth of sharp stabbing impliments in my experience. Always preferred better sightlines to more cover, but well what's a girl to do. Nice establishment like this, I suspect there's hardly reason to worry right?"She has of course honed her sarcasm to a razor fine edge, even when she's just grousing for her own amusement it seems.

Lucifer has posed:
"Top shelf?" The Bartender clearly gets the reference, lifting a brow as he looks her over. Granted, she's got some nice curves that her dress is wrapping around in the right ways, but he's clearly gauging the muscle and looking for a holstered garter gun. "I might have something, but that depends a lot on what kind of work you like to do and what you're looking to make. What's your speciality?" he asks her. "Fixer? Handler?" He gives her another once-over, grinning a little. "I'd say 'roper' but that's a little cliche," he laughs.

Lady Blackhawk has posed:
    She offers a grin in return. "Pilot, but I'm fairly flexible. I'm more privateer than pirate, I'm allergic to too much exposure."and well she's got muscle, and not in the typical places. She's not built like a martial artist, but she's fit as a fiddle most certainly. "Fourty five and a twenty five, nevermind whats in the purse."She's played this game before it seems, at least the whole sizing up play. Gently setting that neat little handbag on the counter top, if only to drive the point home. "I'm a known quantity to the right client, with verifiable history. I'm a little higher profile than the average bear."

Lucifer has posed:
"Pilot?" His interest perks a little, and the Bartender regards Zinda thoughtfully, still cleaning the glass in his hands as he ponders things. "That's a handy skill. Military, by the looks of you," he says. He doesn't miss much. "All right, you can handle yourself," he concedes, lips pursing a little. "So ... what, you're looking for something long term? Some short term jobs to pull some cash together?" he inquires, pegging her as a wheelman.

"I can think of a few jobs that come to mind. Private pilot for a few high-rollers, a little smuggling in a pondjumper... might be someone looking for a fighter pilot in Africa, they're recruiting former USSR aviators to pilot their busted old MiGs around," he suggests to her, frowning in thought.

"We've got a few jobs open. If you're new to the Club and don't have a membership, we'll waive the fee until your first job is done," he tells her. "A little courtesy for new members with potential."

Lady Blackhawk has posed:
    "Para-military, but sure. I'm looking for the cashola, so as to secure the rockin Rolla as it were."She gives a little shrug at that, pulling at that cigarette casually. "Something short term, high risk high rewards. I'm not a taxi driver sweetheart, I should think my reputation would proceed me but I have been out of the game for a few years."She's not kidding either, yaknow like 80 or something right? "Perhaps you've heard of me, I'm Lady Blackhawk." The deadliest ace still alive, or so the story goes. They've built graveyards because of her surely.
    "I don't like the work, I don't like the pay? I won't be wanting a membership anyway, but I appreciate the consideration and kind offer."And yeah ok, she's high roller. Only one pilot who's likely able to pull down the big bucks on reputation alone. "We'll see if the clientelle is rich enough to pay for premium."

Lucifer has posed:
"Lady-- Zinda Blake?"

The Bartender looks mildly surprised. "Huh. You look ... good for a woman who shared air time with the Dick Tracy radio show," he tells her, grunting a little. He shrugs once at her.

"I mean, who'd /lie/ about that? You might be her granddaughter or something, I guess, but you can only talk that talk for so long before someone puts you in a pilot's seat and wants to see what you can do."

"You're new, so, let me clarify something," the Bartender says politely, setting the glass aside. "Our job postings are for members only. There's some wiggle room for... prospectives," he admits, "but we don't make money if we give work to anyone who comes in off the street. We hire only the best and the most talented here, and the price tag on a membership is a good bar to keep street hoods and wanna-bes off the lot."

"How much cash are you trying to /raise/?" he asks, with a lifted brow. "I'm sure you're good, but there are't a lot of jobs that call for a Blackhawk, let alone for the kind of money you seem to want."

Lady Blackhawk has posed:
    "Please darling, I know everyone just used my real name after they thought I was dead but I am on the job. So lets stick to Lady Blackhawk for the moment, hm?"She seems confident enough, fighter pilot kind of confident for certain. "It's complicated, but yes you want an autograph honey?" And a waggle of the brows, before casually chaining up her next cigarette.
    "I ain't got no problem paying for play sweetheart, but I need to see the kind of work we're talking about before I know if I'm going to want any more of it. Fair enough? Consider it a, mutual interview for mutual gain. I need work, and well who else can rival the kind of star power I provide yeah?"And ok yeah, so she knows exactly what kind of weight she's throwing around it seems. "Well we're well into Eight figures or above, cheaper if you want to play price games and consider cost a seperate line item. So whats the score, you have anyone who needs the best that ever was? Cuz' I'm right here, and you've got my attention chief."

Lucifer has posed:
"A hun-- you're trying to raise a /hundred million/ dollars?"

Even the Bartender looks a little shocked, digging for a notepad and handing her a pen and paper while he searches for his thoughts. "Guess I won't say no to a famous flier's autograph," he grunts, rubbing his jaw.

"Okay, Lady Blackhawk, the skinny of it is that there's no one in the world who's gonna pay you a million dollars per year, let alone that much per job," he tells her. He shrugs his shoulders at her. "Sorry. You're good. You're probably even one of the best pilots in the world. But there are a lot of them who are /almost/ as good, and they'll do it for less than half a mil yearly. Somehow I doubt you've got a century to sit around and wait for the money to pile up in your bank accounts," he tells her, with a lifted brow.

Lady Blackhawk has posed:
    "Boy, world really has changed."She smiles never the less, and does indeed scribble out an autograph complete with a little broken heart beneath. "Make no mistake honey, there ain't nobody almost as good as I am on my worst day."And yeah, she's a fighter pilot. "Sorry we couldn't do business, guess I'll end up taking a Fed contract after all."She leans back to polish that old fashioned off like it's water, before slowly rising to her feet. She does however pitch a folded fifty onto the counter top with a wink. "Thanks for your time all the same, be seeing you."

Lucifer has posed:
"Hold up, just --- hold up a second," the Bartender says, shaking his head. "I said that no one's going to /pay/ you that much. Let's talk about this for a second," he says, examining the autograph and putting it somewhere safe in a little ledger near his register.

"Maybe you tell me what you need the money /for/," he suggests. "If it was just a few million bucks, I'd peg you as having a gambling debt or something. A hundred million is getting into 'corporate takeover' territory. Now, you tell me what you're trying to /acquire/, and maybe there's a whole different approach we can take here," he says, challenging her with a cocked brow.

Lady Blackhawk has posed:
    And well, she does pause. Leaning back against the bar to ash that cigarette out where appropriate. "Between four and six fourth to fifth generation aircraft, preferably American with clean titles so as to permit the purchase of spares. Armaments for the same, precision guided munitions, All axis air to air missiles, you know the works. Resurrecting the world's only mercenary air force isn't a simple thing darlin, nor is it particularly inexpensive. Especially not with the current UN mandates against Mercenaries, ITAR regulations and all the rest. That means money, a lot of money. I'm already chasing heavy bids, but I need the equipment to make that happen."And a little shrug at that, as if she was bartering for apples down at the corner market. "You'd be -shocked- how much money folks would pay for that kind of work, enough to put the endeavor into the black in under a year."

Lucifer has posed:
The bartender whistles through his teeth, examining Zinda. "Wow, you don't dream small," he tells her, with a note of admiration. "Most women would have said to hell with it and written a memoire."

He rubs his chin, thinking, and contemplating her with a strangely intense degree of personal scrutiny.

"You're talking about a full-blown military operation. Crew, staff, equipment, personnel... and you're not just after one plane. You want to get a whole operation going."

He scratches his chin, nodding slowly. "Hm. Well, well well. This opens up some interesting possibilities," he remarks, eyes searching the ceiling.

"There happens to be a location I'm aware of that is off the books. It was set up by the CIA as a black operations site," he tells her. "Now, it so happens that they do some /legitimate/ work out of there; but they also move illegal goods into and out of parts of Africa and southeast Asia," he explains. "So there are puddlejumpers and Cessnas on the island, moving guns, drugs, that sort of thing, but there is also a landing and refueling site with at least three C-130s, including a fueler and a pair of Chinese short-range fighter aircraft."

He leans forward on the bar. "And, because it's a CIA site, there's a few storage containers full of printed cash laying around to be used for covert operations all over the globe. Just ... /ripe/ for the taking. For the right person-- and the right crew helping her."

Lady Blackhawk has posed:
    "Sweetheart, I'm Lady *@&!*( Blackhawk, I don't need a crew."Yeah ok, she's got confidence for better or worse. "We talking about some off reservation side hustle, or is this backroom boys with sanction? I ain't got no desire to go picking a fight with my best potential customer, and chinese aircraft might as well be made out of hope and good intentions for all the good they'd do me. The rest, sure. Lets talk. I could reduce the place in a day or two if they're truly off reservation, and of course if it's legit I'd say finders fee would be in order. Right?"

    Well no she's neither timid nor cowardly, and if this was anyone but Zinda they may well be crazy. Her delivery, her body language is cucumber cool though. This isn't just bluster, she really thinks she could do this whole op herself. "I miss the days where somone just needed an airforce destroyed or something, everyone's so low key these days."

Lucifer has posed:
"Let's put it this way," the Bartender suggests. "There's a CIA station chief planning his long-term retirement off that place, a dozen Chinese officials getting bribed to ignore it and leaving those jets on a landing strip, and a dozen agents in the CSS and CIA either getting kickbacks or advancing their political careers- and at least two senators who'd love to see that whole place go up in smoke. So it's like everything else the CIA does. Bloated, inefficient, and slightly illegal. If you showed up and took the place over..." He shrugs. "Who'd complain?"

"You might think you're hot stuff," he tells her, "but you /will/ take a crew. That intelligence wasn't cheap. If you're gonna go in there swinging, I want it done clean and in the first pass. And it won't blow back on us."

"Now, since you fancy yourself management, I'll make you a deal. You sweep the island and get set up, you'll work for the Manager as operations manager there. You'll get paid a handsome wage to run operations for Lux's overseas clients, and any side work you pick up-- five percent of the gross is yours," he tells her, with a lifted brow. "You pull down a few weekend flights at a hundred thousand per, you can easily clear twenty thousand dollars a month cash."

Lady Blackhawk has posed:
    "I ain't looking for long term gig, looking for a short term pay day. I don't play at management, It just so happens I'm the last one left standing for the time being."Which, ok damper. She seems fairly chill still. "You want me to play air cover for your dudes, who wanna run whatever you want out of the joint? Sure, I'll even do it with no advance. However for payment, I want the cash on site and however much else I want in one cargo run. Bigger payday for you in the long term, bigger one for me upfront. I like the way things go, you'll see my face again. I don't like it, you never get me again."Which does mean that at least short term, theres a job pitched which would include air cover by the most famous fighter ace in history. "Chinese aircraft are of no use to me though, I've had plenty of chances to test their latest and greatest already. Oversold, over promised and under performing all of it."

Lucifer has posed:
The bartender rubs his chin, thinking, and examines Zinda with narrowed eyes. "Short term payday," he grunts, considering. "Naw. One cargo run? You could put most of a half a billion in a ratty old DC-10 and I'd never see you again," he grunts at her.

"You're good, Lady Blackhawk. None better. But there's no telling how much cash is actually on /hand/ there. And no merc's worth fifty million dollars for a sweep and clear job. I could export a battalion of Scottish expats with longswords to do the job and still come out ahead," he snorts.

"No. I'll set you up with the island, give you a solid cash bonus, and you can run operations out of the island-- with a hefty discount for Lux's services going forward-- but we keep the cash, and the equipment," he tells her, brow hiking.

Lady Blackhawk has posed:
    "I have zero interest in the island, and the aircraft stationed there."She returns with an easy smile and a slow grin, chaining up another smoke ever so casually. "If it was that easy you'd have done it by now, go ahead and get your Scottish expats if you want. I ain't in this to get rich, I'm already rich. I'm in this to get the outfit going, and that means once up and running I need business. Unless world war three breaks out, that means I'm a prospective contractor. If you're a potential source of income, how motivated do you think I'll be to undertake jobs which risk my relations with you? You get access to a contractor with an actual airforce potentially, and assurances I'll keep out of your hair."
    And well, she does rap on the bar as she retakes a barstool. An indication she'd fancy another drink, obviously. "I go pick up some fluff from the Feds, or a nation state in need of my very rarified skillset? You think I'm going to shy away from making trouble for you down the road? Lets not get the ruler out here, but lets be frank. Any scenerio in which you come into conflict with me and mine, will be at the very least extroidinarily expensive for you. Well more than what just making me happy would have cost."And a pause as she flashes a smile. "You want to try and tell me I'm not the most marketable Merc going right now?"

Lucifer has posed:
The Bartender whips up another old fashioned with expert skill, complete with the fluff of an orange rind that sparks flamnes around his fingertips. He grins a little at Zinda's brassy claim, and even laughs at her bold threat a little. "Let's not go writing checks we can't cash, Lady B," he suggests to her. "We're business people. I made an offer, you made a counter-offer. There's no need to get bellicose," he says, with an urbane tone of reprimand. The drink slides over, and he turns his hand, palm up-- a gesture of peace.

"What you're asking for, /really/, is a loan," he points out. "To put it in the bluntest of terms. Enough seed money to get your little group of aerial aces up and running, to fund global operations. You don't want to run our little overseas operation. That's fine," he says. "But you're asking us to front you a tenth of a /billion/ dollars on your name and reputation alone. I can think of half a dozen mercenary outfits that are making profit /right now/ we could just invest in," he says, brow lifting.

"So we need some insurance. Collateral," he says, fingers spreading. "If you've got a suggestion, I'm listening."

Lady Blackhawk has posed:
    "A loan, no. You want strings, I want friends."She returns, accepting that old fashioned with a little nod. "I'm offering to work, and I know what I want to be paid. If I just wanted to churn cash, well a Spear of Destiny is worth well more than I'd be making here."She even phrases it the right way, because there are atleast five of the spears in circulation. One could be real, or maybe none of them. Not that folks wont pay anyway, heck more than a few would blow stupid amounts of bling on the off chance it actually works. Anyway, she's clearly making it clear she could walk or so she hopes.
    "I'm offering services, and doing so without retainer or partial payment. If you think I'm too rich, well by all means go retain the services of another pilot. I'm asking for big cash on a completed op, and I'm leaving you with the resources to replace what I'm paid ten fold in the long term."And another little shrug there, as she hits that cocktail. "How often do you get any contractor in here who you can honestly say is without equal in all the world?"

Lucifer has posed:
The Bartender exhales through his teeth, shaking his head, and leans back with a roll of one shoulder. He mulls the offer over a little.

"Fifty million," he tells her, finally. "You lead the operation. Our team, our people. If you're as rich as you say, then you can cover the difference out of pocket; if you're as good as you say, then we'll have enough work for you to get your operation up and in the black before the year is out." He lifts a brow at her.

Lady Blackhawk has posed:
    "Fifty and another five for any aerial kills made on the op. You claimed two light fighters, and some transports yeah? That means a maximum real life bonus of ten mil, as no transport would try to take off with a bandit in the AO."which, at least as Zinda is concerned quite fair. "I'll provide the air cover, keep the island isolated and secure. You boys lead your own, and handle the ground game. Presuming I have no opposition in the air at the time, I'll provide close air support as requested."

Lucifer has posed:
"And when it's done, you lose your boyfriend's number and put us on speed dial," the Bartender agrees, nodding his head. "We'll give you preference for air operations and you give us a good buddy discount. Come up with a prospectus, show us some chops, you might even have a prospective investor."

"And we'll even throw in a membership for free," he says, with an irrepressible twinkle in his hazel eyes. "Drinks are comp'd at every Club Lux in the world-- and you can pick up all the side contracts you want through our jobs network."

"And believe me," he tells her, leaning an elbow on the counter between them. "We'll bring you so much business you'll be turning clients away."

Lady Blackhawk has posed:
    "Keep in mind who the Black Hawks are, we're firmly in the light grey."Though she does produce a business card with the flick of the wrist, a neat if amatuer little bit of sleight of hand. Still she sets it on the bar, before sliding it over. "I get wind of something I don't like, or that things aren't above board? I'm gone. Now then, I've got things to do. Send me the particulars soonest, and I'll start moving things into position. We good then, chief?"

Lucifer has posed:
The Bartender takes the card, examines it front and back, and winks at Zinda. He snaps his wrist and it vanishes into the air, and he spreads his fingers just for good measure.

"I'll get a ground team together," he tells her. "I trust some discretion on your part, and you'll have the same from us. Figure that we'll be ready to go... oh, inside of two weeks," he considers, mulling at the ceiling for a moment.

"I'm looking forward to seeing how you do, Lady Blackhawk," he tells her, grining easily. "This is a promising initiative-- for the both of us." He sketches a salute as she moves to leave.