2012 02 22 Hunting Up Leads

Log Title:
Hunting up leads

Morbius, emitting by Mike

IC Date:
22 Feb 2012

Hell's Kitchen

Brief log summary::
Morbius stalks the night for information


There is no TS in this log::

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-==[ Hell's Kitchen - New York ]==--------

Some people call this area the Lower West Side; some people who want to talk it up call it Clinton. A few particularly unwise types call it West Midtown, but they'd better not do that where anyone can hear. Everyone else calls it Hell's Kitchen.

The congested streets are dominated by flat-faced, boxy buildings, three and four stories tall. Between some of them run alleyways - some wide enough to park a car in, some too narrow to give space for anything but ambushing a passerby. The slow transformation of much of the rest of Manhattan into a playground for the wealthy has met its match in the underworld here, which has a vested interest in keeping Hell's Kitchen and its inhabitants poor and desperate as a cover for its own activities, and in the danger of merely entering the neighborhood. After all - though other cities are better known for them lately, Hell's Kitchen is one of the places where street gangs began.

Hell's Kitchen seems a bit different tonight. Outside one of the run down tenament buildings, a car that typically can be seen idling outside is not there anymore and instead a rather thin sort of man leans against the building, chain smoking as he looks somewhat mournfully to the vacant spot. Stub between his lips begining to vanish, he brings up another cigarette to the lit end, lighting it before he spits out the old knub and replaces it with the fresh fag. Shaking his head, the man, who they call in these parts, Tim, continues with his deadly habit. Free fingers twitching as he looks back to the vacant parking space.

There is a soft, tapping sound from Tim's right, like something hard being lightly struck against the building's wall, then a soft, scraping noise.

"Connection elsewhere tonight, Mister Williamson?" a rasping, hollow voice asks from the shadows near the building's corner. It's enough to send chills up most people's spines. The gleaming, red-stained eyes that peer from beneath a somewhat wild mane of black hair can't be helping things.

The cigarette falls from the waiting man's lips as he is greeted, he recovers in time to reach up a hand to try and catch the cigarette, causing for him to let out a stream of cursing as the lit end hits his palm first. After the lit cig is juggled a bit and ends up back in the man's mouth, he starts rubbing the burned part against his clothes, "Never getting used to that, man." His head turns, looking to the eyes before turning away with a grimace, instead just leaning against the wall. "Uh. No. It's been kind of quiet. Usual guy hasn't been here in a week. Heard he's in the hospital."

"Do tell?" the Living Vampire asks, casually, "Stab wounds, perhaps?" he's fishing a bit, but one never knows, "I need some information. There's been some…activity that has caught my attention." That normally means bloodless bodies may start turning up, "You help me, and I…can help you." His voice is resigned at the last. He understands these men to some extent, a self-inflicted problem, an addiction they cannot hide from for long. And yet, he still cannot help but feel, rightly, that he is enabling them.

At the offer, the man's head turns slightly before the glimpse of the eyes remind him why he wasn't looking that way. Eesh. He removes the cigarette, "Help?" He mulls it over, considering the options, which aren't very many, the cancer stick twists between his fingers before he raises it back to his lips. "How about leaving the one who works this corner alone?" He pauses for a puff, "Costs a bit more but at least you know his stuff's not cut with the bad stuff."

"It is…ironic to be so concerned about one's health, considering." Morbius notes, "If he only sells, he is safe from me. Only those who victimize others are my prey. As…distasteful as this is, it is your choice, and I will not interfere." There is a soft rustling sound as he reaches into one of several pockets, and the slide of paper as two fifties come up, held with the card from the other night, "Tell me about this."

When the money and card are presented, Tim reaches over to better check the extended items. The postcard is looked at curiously, "It's a postcard?" He pauses, eyeing the red tint, "Is that what I think it i-" He pauses. Right. VAMPIRE. Nevermind. "Um…" He pauses, looking at the card, "Where'd it come from?"

"An assault on a 'gentleman' with some obvious connections. Nonfatal. Likely meant to be. Two knives, arm and lower back. Obviously meant to send a message." Morbius explains,

"It's so overt I was wondering if there have been more." he describes the man, his car…

With some background information, the druggie looks at the card again, "I'm not sure about the card bu-" He pauses, "There is talk of this guy who's been stabbing people in the back in the area. Think a couple guys who keep watch over the building over there got hit at the same time, too." He nods towards an abandoned, boarded up apartment building, "But the card…" He frowns, shaking his head.

"Random attacks or…?" Morbius pauses, thinking, "What association do they share? All drug trade?"

Tim glances to the vacancy where the car once sat, "From what I know about the two at the building, they're a couple of idiots." This is quite a severe insult considering the one offering the criticizim. "I think the reason they're even in is because they grew up here." He gives a bit of a nod before pausing, "…well, other than the first guy, yeah. They're Dragon's." He glances back to the card. "Didn't hear anything about these though."

"Dragon?" the pseudo-vampire asks, eyes narrowing in interest, "How far does that one's reach spread?" a rival, perhaps? Is this a turf war?

"If it is a turf war, it's the quietest one I've ever heard of." Tim replies shaking his head, "Far as I knew it's some nutcase with a good lawyer who seems to like stabbing random people and blowing up clubs for shits and giggles in his free time. I'm kind of surprised that guy is still around."

That sounds familiar…the news…"Wait…" Morbius raises one taloned hand and strokes his goatee in thought, "The one who attacked the musician?" He -met- the musician recently, it clicks, "The same man questioned in the club explosion. Yessss…I may have to look him up." He makes a soft sound, like a rolling exhalation, 'hrrrrrrr…' "You've been most helpful, Mister Williamson. Well worth the expense." His pale, spidery hand extends, waiting for the return of the card.

Tim looks to the extended hand and then towards the items in his hand, puzzling over the course of a few seconds over which one he wanted back. It wasn't that tough of a decision as the postcard is handed back without the monetary companions. "Yeah, assuming he didn't get looked up already." Tim agrees. "If he is focusing on Dragon, it's not going to be long before he gets burnt." He gives a bit of a laugh, the money and the prospect of getting in a good joke lightening his mood just a bit before he goes back to puffing his cigarette.

Morbius watches the man for a moment, taking in his scent, the way he stands, his eyes, skin, the doctor and the predator learning volumes, "Tell me, where does Dragon's territory extend to?" he asks, then adds, more quietly, "You may want to avoid that area if things come to a head. I won't have them endangering others over a personal conflict."

The thin man doesn't look back to Morbius, shaking his head, "Can't very well move out of my apartment." He sighs, "Seems focused around here mainly. But I hear he's got pull in other places, including Jersey."

"So a more wide-ranging vendetta, perhaps. We shall see." Morbius almost turns to go, but hesitates, "I have said this before, but there are treatment centers. Imperfect, perhaps, but…" he leaves it open. Strange perhaps, for Tim to see concern from this monster.

Tim gives a nod, smile fading, "I know. But it just doesn't take, you know?" He glances back to the spot, "Kind of wish that the guy stabbed one of the ones that's been cutting their stuff with Tide instead. Hard to find good dealers."

In response to the first statement Morbius notes, ruefully, "I know…" How many times has he tried, and failed. The source of this empathy.

"Ah, the 'ethics' of business." he says, "I am sure you will find what you seek." Another long, careful look at the man…is this how he seems to others? A lost cause? No, he decides, his features setting. Worse. But they are wrong. He will prove them wrong and get to the bottom of this. "Stay safe. And remember, regardless of the temptation, it is…unwise to victimize others for what you crave." Words of wisdom, hm?

Tim gives a nod, "Yeah, kind of fucked up how far some go. One of my neighbors got offed last month over some in the entry way."

"I must go. I will look into this and see what I can do. If anyone asks…" Morbius peels his lips back slightly, showing a hint of those terrible fangs. No good letting anyone get -too- comfortable.

There's a bit of a grimace, "Asks what?"

"I am not without enemies. And I'd prefer no one know of my movements." Morbius says, simply.

Tim gives a nod, "I'm… not going to mention it." He pockets the money.

Morbius turns without another word and simply drifts silently upwards into the air, staying close to the building's side, his mind turns over what he has learned, and the interesting coincidences he has stumbled across. What could this apparent stalker have against Dragon? How is the musician involved? -Is- he? So many questions…

With Morbius leaving, Tim goes back to empty space watching, puffing away on his cigarette.

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