| What's In a Phone? |
| Summary: | Emma Frost runs into Sally Blevins while the latter is trying to scam a gallery out of lost and found high-end phones. |
| Date: | 2014-04-24 |
| Related: | NA |
| NPCs: | NA |
| Scene Runner: | NA |
| Social/Plot: | Social |
| Players: |
 .. .. |
Everyone knows, never show up to a gallery after an opening before 10, you'll be waiting outside, and it's just no fun. Which is why, crisply at 10 am sharp Sally shows up in the arts district, new looking dark cream khaki's, a blue cotton blouse, denim jacket, that's a year or two behind the current fashion, hair pulled back into a ponytail, and little to no accessories in ht eay of jewelry, but a slightly worn looking canvas messenger bag slung over a shoulder.
There's at least two people at a Gallery in the morning, the assistant, and someone who can make decisions. It's the assistant that Sally is heading for as she opens up the door and steps in side, smiling, and moving to the well dressed young man, "Hi there, my Boss was here last night for the opening and seems to have misplaced her phine, it's either here, or at Torrisi's, and so I just wanted to pop in and check, black, Starkphone 5, no case, looks brand new…if you could check for me it'd be a lifesaver, and I can get on to every other errand I gotta run today…"
Generally, no gallery like this opens any earlier than ten, it is true. But this gallery opened at nine-thirty this morning, very discretely. All it took was a single phone call, and a name dropped, and the gallery owner was only too happy to make arrangements to make that happen. Which is why as Sally makes her entrance outside on the assistant, a certain platinum blonde socialite, businesswoman, and private school Headmistress is sitting comfortably in a plush, luxurious loveseat in the gallery owner's office, legs crossed at the knees, chatting amiably about the show last night. Meanwhile, out in back, a sizeable triptych painting is being carefully crated up for delivery a good several blocks away, to a private club on the Upper East Side.
Emma Grace Frost saw something during the show last night that she simply had to have. Not for herself, mind, and definitely not for display in her Westchester office. No, this wasn't even something she'd put in an office in Midtown for Frost International. This piece really only had one suitable home, and that's inside the quiet, private halls of the Inner Circle - once known as the Lords Cardinal - of the Hellfire Club. Not willing to be seen negotiating for the piece, let alone buying it and taking possession, Emma instead made that discrete phone call last night. Now, she's stuck in here, chatting with the owner, waiting for the situation outside those doors to resolve so that she ca depart unseen.
The assistant shrugs his shoulders a bit. "I'm sorry. No one left a Starkphone 5 last night. At least, not that we have seen. I can have someone call your office, if we find one later. But that's the best I can offer."
She's no idea who's in with the owner, and as the assistant lets her know that no phones were left, there's a slight mentall curse, and she looks generally dissapointed. The blonde sighs, then smiles, "I'll check Torrisi's first, and if it's not there, I'll call you back with a number to reach me at, alright?" she says, trying to keep up the cheerful facade. Shifting just a little, edging towards the door, well a step or two, trying to be subtle.
Beyond that door, Emma is aware of the new mind added to the mix. Moreso, she is aware that mind is highly active, and a bit agitated. A plan did not come together as desired. And she realizes the woman outside is up to something. She's playing a part, trying to con the assistant. Normally, Emma would not care about such things. But it intrigues her, the audacity of the attempt. She lightly prods the mind of the assistant, and he turns to regard the young blonde in front of his desk more directly.
"Why don't you give me your number now? I'm about to let the cleaning crew into the main gallery space. We aren't opening there until noon, so now is the time. If they find anything, I'd want you to know right away."
«Damnit.» He's seen her. She's not just some face in the crowd, "Really, i'll just call you once I get to Torrisi's and if they don't have it." she says smiling. Reaching up to loosen her bangs, turning slightly, in profile, leaning away a little, "Cause if it's there, great, no more looking, and I can go back to getting everything else done, you know how it is?" she says, scarambling to keep her story and reasoning straight, "Why take a number down you might not need, I mean i'd hate to mix up a number with someone elses, and don't tell me you've not done that, we all do it…"
The girl is good, that much is true. Emma can see the confusion that the girl is successfully weaving inside the mind of the assistant. It tempts her to clear it up, to give him the mental clarity required to get past it, to get through it. But she doesn't do that. Emma instead lets the girl work on her escape, disarming the situation, while Emma herself deals with the owner. "That's alright. Just have the delivery made, as agreed upon. And keep in mind, I was never here." She doesn't bother to erase her presence from the woman's memory. Not now. But two hours from now, she will. Because secrecy is vital.
With nothing more being said she turns her back, and makes a line right for the door, carefull on just how she pushes the glass door open, fingers sliding over the glasss, letting her fingers slide and ruin anything used to try and pin her down, and once outside, she starts a brisk pace away, looking like she's in a rush, like she's late for something, trying to put distance between herself and the gallery to get out of sight, into an alley, something away from public view…
Once the girl is gone, Emma gets up, says her goodbyes, and departs the gallery herself, making her way out just as her car pulls around, the driver opening the door for her even as she emerges from the building. Timing is everything. "That way, Bobbi. Please?" She slips inside and takes a seat as the door closes. Then the car pulls away.
At least, that's what everyone around sees. The only one the wiser would be an automated surveillance camera on the corner, which picks up - being unaffected by telepathy - Emma emerge from the building and then turn, walking away after Sally's departure, while her driver really does pull up out front, open the door, reach out a hand as if helping someone inside - though no one is there - and then closes the door, walks around, gets in the car, and drives off.
About three minutes later, Emma stands carefully in the alleyway, watching the blonde undressing, changing out of the cleaner, higher-rent clothes into rougher streetwear. She doesn't interrupt. Instead,s he waits until the girl has her top pulled down. Then she releases her telepathic hold on editing her senses, and appears. Right where she is. Watching. "A gutsy move, your confidence game. High yield, when it works, I'm assuming."
Well then Emma likely getting a glimpse of old scars, healed long ago, but still there, lines and pock marks along her ribs and back. She's chosen a Mets t-shirt and jeans. The Khakis, the blouse, were at the very leaste folded and put back into bag. She dips back into a defensive stance, looking to the blonde, well dressed and high class woman, "Well, yeah, a phone from these parts could get me enough to eat ok for a week or so, maybe some clothes, or a few days rent." she says. No need to lie to the woman, if she wanted to call the cops she wouldn't have stopped, and shown up here. How she tracked her though, thats the thought running through her head, along with the many escape routes out of the part of town to somewhere safe.
"Naturally." Emma responds, acknowledging the younger woman's point. A phone from some place as upscale as the gallery would surely fence for a couple hundred dollars. Emma gestures towards Sally. "Who hurt you like that?" She doesn't bother to edge around the subject, but goes for the gusto, for what it's worth.
She bristles at the question, pulling her shirt just so, adjusting it. A little too large, just a size more than she needs, offering very little in the way of definition of her bodytype, "Does it matter?" she asks, tugging a ball cap from the messenger bag, slipping it onto her head, "So look, you calling the cops, or did you call them? Cause either way, I'd really like to not sleep in a warehouse or alley tonight, and there's still like clubs, cab stations, bars, and theaters I can hit before I see my guy to get paid."
Emma smirks a bit at the girl's confidence and bravado. But her answer to the question is uncharacteristically open and honest. "To me? Maybe not. But I'm sure it matters to you." And she asked, willing to listen. Chances are not many folks are willing to listen to a homeless girl like this. And somehow this hoity toity bitch knows that. Knows it and acts on it instinctively. "If I wanted you arrested, you would be. I just wanted to see what it was that gave you the confidence to try that stunt." She hasn't seen it yet, only glimpsed the sense of it, the confidence that it could help if things went wrong. And being a former girl of the streets herself - if only for a very brief time - Emma was curious to see what that was.
There's flashes of some of the incidents, but briefs, "A now convict, that's who." she says. The blonde shifting a little, "Well I like to eat, I like to sleep on a bed, got nothing else to my name but this, either I get good or I don't eat, I don't get a place for a few days, it pays more than flipping burgers, and is easier, noone to report too, noone telling me what to do. I did it because about 20% of the time I make a score, I guess right, sometime even snag a jeweled case, better chance up here to get one with actual jewels and not plastic, that's why I'm here, hoping I can get a good score."
"Fair enough." Emma answers, as she reaches into her purse and pulls out her phone. She pops it open and tugs out the SIM card, then tosses the phone towards Sally. It's a top-end, latest-generation smartphone, naturally. No jewels. That's crass, in Emma's opinion. But the case is a white gold shell. "There. Now you have a score, you eat, you get something to wear, and you get a safe place to sleep for a bit." She tucks the SIM card away; she'll need that when she gets her replacement. Part of her would offer a means of contact, in the chance this girl would reach out someday to make her life better. But that would expose Emma, and the girl is unlikely to ever do that. "Good luck."
The phone is caught with ease, and tucked away into her bag. "Thanks." she says. Shifting the bag to be slung across her body, "So what's in this for you? You gonna track it to my guy?" she asks. She's careful, and will be looking it over later. The case she can sell, likely worth more than the phone. "I'm Sally, I've barely answered your other questions, but you at least deserve my name."
Emma smiles wryly. She already had the girl's name, of course, and never needed her to reveal it. She could explain to the girl that she's helping her because she herself got a way out when she was trapped into that Hell. She's helping this girl because it makes her feel better about how easily she got out of her own situation like this. But she'd never admit that to herself. "It amuses me, I suppose is the answer. I have no interest in 'your guy', or whatever you do with the phone or the case."
Metropolitan Museum — Upper East Side
The lobby of the museum is a huge, roughly circular room with a very high ceiling. A staircase curves up one wall, dark-veined white marble stairs lined by a thick, dark red-brown railing of polished wood. The floor is tiled in black and white marble, and an impressive light fixture just shy of a chandelier's elegancy is suspended from the ceiling, casting light all the way down to the bottom floor. On one side of the lobby is the entrance to the gift store - a room lit just a bit too brightly, and stuffed full of shelves and racks containing souvenirs of all types. A short corridor leads past the front desk, and the ever-present duo of receptionist and security guard, into the depths of the museum.