Jake English appeared to be the average joe to just about anybody who observed him; lean, lightly tanned and muscled, jet black hair, and a crooked smile. He was a stay at home worker, occasionally writing a thesis or two for his job in neurotechnology. Occasionally, or so he said, the need would arise for him to head into his job ("A surgery on the patient's brain," he would explain) and he would be missing for a day, possibly two or even a week. His grand lifestyle surprisingly did not score up much money, even in the modern years. He consistently demanded that his clients call him "Mister English" and he always insisted on it.
This very morning, his legs were resting against the edge of the cedar desk before him, socked toes twitching lightly to the AM radio embedded in the wall. His rough middle finger's tip scrolled along the wheel of a mouse. His bored gaze remained fixated on the screen in front of him; after awhile the New York Times got pretty boring. He liked it better when he lived in Wales.
the phone on his desk rattled and rang, his emerald irises flitted to the coil of the black antique snaking haphazardly across the desk in an unplanned manner. He lazily dragged the blunt out of the corner of his lips and set it down on the ashtray before his calloused fingers wrapped around the cool plastic of the phone. He daintily, almost cautiously lifted it off the receiver and placed it against his ear, head cocking over to hold it in place as he picked up his cigar again. "Mister English, at your service." He drawled in a businesslike manner, fake accent shining through in faux boredom.
"Hey there Jake. This is a client. I need to handle a piece of interest and after asking around the area, I found just the man who could help me." Texan accent, chilled tone, male, and a certain eagerness to be placed. This was no fool calling him, and it occurred to him that this man just might be attempting to pick a bone with him.
"Horsefeathers, it's the lord's day, what on earth could you possibly want?" He grumbled.
"It's quite the plunder. It's a Central American tomb, right in Mexico." He could almost hear the smile in his voice. His eyebrows arched up, eyes narrowing behind square spectacles.
"Gadzooks," He murmured briefly before swallowing. "I don't know who you are, or how you found me, but I suppose if my business is your fancy; we can collaborate. But I don't work free, chap." He added in the last bit quickly, wanting to try and scare off the man on the other end of the telephone.
The stranger chuckled briefly before smoothly adding his remark. "A certain bombshell blonde told me you are a tough nut to crack. She wasn't lyin'."
Jake's scowl released a hiss that was audible to the stranger, who snickered once again.
"I'm sorry to have troubled you, Jake. Just meet me up for a drink, how about that?"
"It's a date." He allowed a sarcastic joke to pass his teeth, which the stranger laughed at once more before a click in his ear alerted him that the alien caller had hung up on him. He "tsk'd" and placed the phone down with a slam, his heartbeat roaring in his ear. A certain bombshell blonde? Only Roxy could have sold him out, the blabbermouth ought to have watched her tongue if she fancied it in her mouth. His hand gripped his brow, thumb and pointer finger rubbing light circles over his temples. He didn't even want to think over it, but he supposed that if he invited the gentleman to lunch that he ought to show up to business, as it was typical gentleman etiquette.
But he wasn't a gentleman! He was a tomb raider!
His belt clacked to the floor as soon as he loosened it, practically leaping out of his khaki shorts and briefs. He peeled off athletic socks, coated in grimy stains from previous endeavors. His hand gripped onto the shower wall, groping for the shower handle before pulling it to the hottest setting available. His foot kicked back to shut the door to the cramped bathroom. Steam already started to circulate in the room as he glanced into the mirror. An unshaven, disheveled man stared right back, and he groaned as he realized how much he had to prepare for this meeting. He tossed aside a faded t-shirt after stretching the material over his head, his glasses coming off with them and clattering to the floor. He blindly reached for them and set them on the sink counter. His naked body lumbered into the shower stall, sliding the door back into place as soon as his feet grazed the plaster of the floor. He raked his hands through his thick mop of hair, attempting to channel the water down into the roots of his mane. He felt blindly for his shampoo and grabbed hold of the plastic bottle, squeezing a small amount of the Suave substance into his palm.
As he washed his hair, his thoughts drifted back into the situation at hand. Who was this mysterious stranger? What were his motives, other than the clear knowledge of his profession? Why did Roxy decide to leak the tidbit of information to him? Why on earth was a southern man in central Manhattan? His face crumpled like cardboard.
Lathering the soap in his grip, his near-sighted vision flitted to the contents of the two bottle on the shower's shelf. One contained shampoo, the other conditioner, and a creme tray for the soap. Residue from the wash circled the tray in a hardened mess of sud bubbles and hog fat. He never attempted to clean the dish, or most of the shower for that matter, but he figured it was about time to go about the average man's duties. He had dated a few gals over time, and they would state that he was a well dressed gentleman at all times. Unsuspicious. Loyal.
None of them lasted with him for over six months. He always made excuses, calling them clingy or against his tastes. It was never like the movies, he would tell himself, and go on. Deep down, he knew it was that he would never be able to be honest. His shell of a man declared that he was self employed as a talented young soul of neurotechnology and only had to go in very infrequently but for extended periods of time. But truly, he was a tomb raider. Some might have call it defiling the dead and robbing their last possessions. He called it self wealth. He only ever told one of his girlfriends of his profession, to which she took kindly and was very supportive, just as a good lover should have been. That didn't stop the inevitable breakup of the two.
After his broad body had been cleansed, even down to the soles of his feet and in the nooks and crannies of his ears, he briefly rinsed off the tones of his form and was quick to turn off the supply of water. He stepped out onto the chilled tile floor, grabbed his towel, and vigorously scrubbed his scalp. It was going to be a difficult meeting, finally confronting the mysterious man on the phone.
His suit wouldn't have been considered ordinary by most standards, maybe just barely brushing by the borders of formal. His black cleats clacked against the floor as he walked, the smell of shoe polish radiating off the newly cleaned footwear. The wonders of his legs were concealed by fresh athletic socks, his shorts stopping just above the crease of his kneecaps. Buttons to a gray vest clasped above his waist to about mid-chest, the jacket opening up like a "U". Poking out of the exposed space was a white bowtie. Etched on his left breast was a green skull, the bottom jaw missing and the style looking like something straight from a Saturday morning cartoon. His styled hair was greased up, a serious stern look plastered on his face beneath his spectacles. He prayed that the snow drifting from the sky wouldn't stick and trap him at his home.
As he pursued the streets, his hands remained within a reasonable distance of his vest. Beneath the overcoat were two concealed M9 pistols, cocked and ready for any skirmishes he may run into. Loaded in each was a tranquilizer dart. If it became too tense, he feared, he might have to silence the possible client. He didn't want a body on hand, but he supposed if it came to it he could hide the drugged body in a nearby dumpster or even in one of the grimy alleyways.
What he wasn't expecting was to meet one of his clients on the street.
"Why, it's half past noon, mister English! Aren't you supposed to be home, asleep?" Baby blue eyes batted lashes affectionately, the young woman's thick honey voice drifting up to him much like the scent of a well baked snack. Her presence alone lured him in, her sugary tone drawing him in faster than a fish to a worm. Just as if by instinct, he nodded his head to her and genuinely smiled. "Top of the morning, miss Crocker."
"Drop the act. You're quite the gentleman when you act, but that's not you." She giggled softly, tauntingly, and adjusted the brim of her faded fedora over her brow. Her eyes shone despite the shadow from the hat's brim.
"Oh, dear, forgive me. I got ahead of myself." He admitted in a near bashful tone, lifting his collar and quickly waving his hand as if he was batting at flames. Another hee-haw erupted from her mouth and she rose up on her tiptoes, leaning forward ever so slightly. "So, say, what are you doing out here so early in the afternoon for?"
He remained silent for a moment, keeping a keen eye on her. "Same goes for you Jane." He said in a soft voice, as to not create disruption towards them on the sidewalk. Jane's eyes quickly darted around, focusing on an alleyway for a few mere moments before they flicked back to him. He nodded and the two nonchalantly perused into the alley.
The brick walls stretched down the length of the alley, a rusty dumpster positioned near the very back corner. Jake estimated mentally that the alleyway had to be at least twenty meters long. If he found the need to go AWOL, it wouldn't be too hard, he hoped.
Jane began to speak in a hushed voice as she shuffled slowly down the pathway. "I know that something's up. Another client?" She asked.
"I thought my business was none of yours." He replied. "Perhaps I should ask the same thing to the private eye?"
"Drat, what did I tell you about saying that in public places? Don't. Only you and Lalonde are allowed to know about it other than the agency."
"And Lalonde opens her pretty little mouth to anyone who bothers to listen."
"She's just a bartender, give her a bre-"
"Says the gal dating her..."
Her face flushed in embarrassment and her gaze diverted to her boots, hands shoving into deep trench-coat pockets. "You told me your secret and I shared mine. My job is for the justice of humanity, and yours is just a robber plundering for trinkets."
If he wasn't such a gentleman, he ought to have socked her in the mouth. "It's for archaeology. Color me red, it's not like you've never had to search a dead man's pockets for blasted 'proof' once or twice."
"I don't keep it or sell it. The family gets it, or it's buried with the victim."
"Tombs can be a crime scene too. I'm not stealing if the dead have been gone for years and years."
Jane smiled coyly, "It's a real shame you're not one for forensics, mister English." She suddenly whispered in a soft voice. "I'm even starting to teach Rox the very basics of the art. She has the head for it. I know you wouldn't believe it, but she's a lot smarter than her job boasts."
"I know that she is. She used to fix my computer when it was jammed up and misbehaving." His mind reeled back at the memory of his few dates with Roxy that he could name off the back of his hand.
"Jakey, it's a lil' late, but I guess I can do this for ya." The blonde slurred, her amethyst irises observing the blacked-out screen of Jake's computer monitor. "But it's gonna cost ya,"
"Cost isn't my concern," He babbled to her, his hand snaked around her torso. "Do me a favor, will you? I have a report to submit to the office by tomorrow and it gave out just this morning.
She smiled back at him over her shoulder, "Where's yer wrench?" Her voice laced with booze wavered in the sweltering heat of the summer apartment. Her black tank top became increasingly more notable as her oversized shirt slid down her shoulder while she worked. Jake wasn't sure if it was on purpose or not, but he was fairly certain all that she wanted was to seduce him.
He refused to be the dishonest man with her.
A man stood by the corner of the coffee shop. He observed the occasional man passing by on the sidewalk, probably scurrying back to the safety of their homes in the winter weather. His eyes narrowed behind queer triangular shades as the snow continued to descend from the clouds. He loathed the snow with a fiery passion. Back where he lived, there was simply no such thing as the white fluff. Winter weather in the south was a balmy fifty degrees, at the lowest. His brushed back his blonde bangs as they fell into his eyes, the chilly light wind testing him.
At least it would be warm in Mexico.
The coffee shop's door swung open, the warmth of the fifties-esque diner inviting him inside. The woman who opened the door grasped a thin cigarette between her thumb and pointer, her black lipstick smile welcoming. "Hey there Dirk," She spoke to him, her Boston accent startling him. "Lookin' pretty chilly out here. I suppose that's what you get for coming to New York."
"And you're surprisingly sober." He retorted.
"How about I let you in?"
"That would be great, thanks." He stepped into the emporium, the aroma of caffeinated beverages and chocolate wafting into his nose. The lighting was warm and welcoming. He heard a Regina Spektor song playing through the ceiling speakers, amongst the faint clanking of dishes in the kitchen, an arcade game clicking absently in a closed off section of the shop, and the female's soft humming. Her manicured nails browsed sightlessly through a pile of menus, plucking two out and handing them to him.
"Roxy-"
"Your friend is coming for lunch, isn't he?"
His brows arched up, eyes still unseen behind his shades. "How did you know? And he's not my fri-"
Roxy placed a finger to his lips. "Be a little quieter when you're using the phone in back." She winked at him. "While you're waiting, give that old machine in back a whirl. I'll say the rounds are on the house."
He took a look at the dusty contrivance. The outsides of it were in obvious need of repair, dents and places where the paint on the shell had worn off visible from the distance. The eight bit tune churning out of it was somewhat catchy by chance, almost tempting him to listen to Roxy's inducement. "Why is there even an arcade game sitting in here?" He questioned.
"It's a cheap old rustbucket. The manager purchased it from an arcade that was going out of business. It's for the kids who are a bit restless, but it might just relieve you from some of that stress you got."
"It's not stress, it's anticipation. I just want to meet Jake and know if he's able to take my job."
"He's a little stubborn and rooted in his old fashioned ways. He's gonna be a bronco with you."
He considered the game for another moment before taking up her offer. She handed him a few quarters and wished him well. As he approached the standing game, the window beside the booth filtered in light due to the lack of the restaurant's brightness. His rough hand stroked the shell of the arcade machine, which from what he could tell was enamored with illustrations of a large deadly black dog slaying pale lizards and soldiers in chess colors. He was unsure of the game's name, for the words were missing from age. His left palm caressed the joystick and button pads before he made the decision to slide in a quarter, in the slot beneath the dashboard of the machine. The eight bit calliope halted and made a quick confirmation noise, asking for his approval to start. He tapped a bright red button and pixels cascaded down the screen, creating a landscape of a chess board, blue skies gracing over the scene. Blood, from what he could tell, pooled around the feet of the presumed antagonist giant dog, and the fighters lay murdered around the figure. The wings that protruded from his back flapped once before the supposed protagonist appeared, carrying a large two-handed hammer. His blue attire stood against the scene, and the two remained in a fighting stance as the game requested a press of the start button. Dirk thought this was ridiculous; playing games was for children. His brother would disapprove and call him weak or pathetic. That did not stop him from pressing it.
"Is that a video game? Gee, that's a real turn of character, mystery man."
He quickly turned to look over his shoulder with lightning reflexes. Standing there, he guessed, was the man he was seeking. His borderline inappropriate attire and tone of voice immediately gave him away.
"Dirk Strider, here to be your client." He said politely.
"Jacob English. Charmed," He shook hands with the texan.
"Care for a cup of coffee? Or is tea more to your liking?" He teased him, to which Jake only smiled. Deep down he already did not like him.
"I'll take up the coffee." He replied, deciding to keep things professional. Dirk chuckled and led him to a table, abandoning the game which clicked and whirred on, the protagonist dead at the monster's paws in failure.
Jake kept a close eye on the stranger, not trusting him for a moment. Now that lunch break was over, customers began to trickle into the shop and waiters scurried around to serve them. Despite their seating in the booth, he noticed from the corner of his eye that Ro-Lal was quick to bustle towards their table. Dirk quickly slipped him the second menu.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen." She smiled flirtatiously. "I trust you're both ready to order."
Jake let out a charming laugh, his plastic smile starting to falter. "Why, Ms. Lalonde, we just received our menus. Give us a moment to peruse them. My guest has yet to read it."
Roxy winked at them, "I'll give you two a moment then." She purred, quickly toeing off to the kitchen. Jake's groan was barely suppressed as he rubbed his temples in irritation. Dirk leaned back, crossing his arms across his chest in a lax manner.
"State your business." Jake stated impatiently.
"I'll give you the lowdown, if you're so interested. There's a mayan city in Mexico that has come to my attention in particular, Coba. It's ancient, and most of it is vastly unexplored."
"A mayan civilization? Undestroyed? Intact?" He asked in surprise. "By jove, I've explored the incan and the aztec, never the excitement of an actual mayan tomb! That's right near being a dream!" He tried to keep his voice down, his excitement threatening to spill over.
"You bet your socks. That's the term men like you like to use?" He smirked, playfully insulting the englishman.
"So how much do you plan on paying? What other details are there for me?" Jake asked, keeping a close gaze on him. Dirk shimmied a bit further into his seat and held his sly smile.
"Well, this isn't exactly a very simple excavation. A boss of mine, Spades Slick, has a grudge with a certain gang that likes to pick on ours."
"I don't associate myself with gangs."
"It's not a bad gang. We're just a little pushy. It's for the sake of justice. The other group's dangerous. I'm assuming you've never heard of The Felt?"
"This is tomfoolery. Of course I've never heard of them. I'm a neutral man on these sorts of affairs. I absolutely refuse to take up an offer that doesn't pertain to me."
"But it does pertain to you, Jake. My organization has you pinned as a possible criminal and if proven guilty, I'm on orders to kill you where you stand."
Jake kept a very slight sneer as he stared down Dirk, who looked increasingly stoic with that set mouth and the triangle sunglasses. "Do you plan on fighting me?"
"If you don't hear me out."
He bit his lip and rested his elbows on the table. "I'll listen, then."
"The Felt is a rival of ours. They're known for acts of terrorism towards us, and take the measures to annihilate any gang who picks a bone with them. We've been on their case for awfully long time."
"And what does this have to do with me?"
"Listen. Some of the leaders of the Felt were said to have had an affair a long while ago. The tabs we have it on are Lady Snowman and Lord English. The last name corresponds with yours."
"It doesn't mean that they're my parents."
"Tell me about your parents."
"Well, my grandmother raised me as a young boy. She never told me about my parents or how I came to be."
"And that's not suspicious."
Jake fell silent, and Dirk picked up where he left off.
"You don't have a clue on it, and neither do we. Slick is convinced that you're the English man's heir, and he's trying to have your head over his fireplace. He sent me out to kill you, but I believe that you're better suited to assist us. I wish it could be a little easier, but it's a bit of a stretch." He paused, waiting for Jake to give the signal to continue. He nodded slightly and continued to speak.
"In Coba, it's mostly deserted, save some tourists. I believe you'll blend in just fine. You're going to rob the hell out of all the pyramids and do what you do best when night falls. The goods will be given to Slick as a bribe, he lets you live, and in the end you win. You don't have to produce all the trinkets; he won't know."
"While you're busy with that, I'll be on guard duty. The flip side to all this is that Lord English is after me, because of the intel I have on the Midnight Crew. It doesn't help that they last intercepted my position on a plane that landed in Laguardia. Jake, more than anything, this is a chance for you to loot some neat places, I get funds for the Crew, and we part our ways when we're done."
"A two man team's a bit small, don't you agree?" Jake questioned to him.
"Well, we can certainly bring along Rox and Jane."
"How do you know about Ja-?"
"The lavender blonde. She's attached to the detective by the hip."
As if on cue, Roxy arrived with a large tray positioned on her shoulder, setting down two cups and pouring them both coffee with surprisingly steady hands. As soon as she finished pouring, she set down a small bowl filled with sugar, a tiny plastic spoon poking out, and a tiny flagon of milk. Next, she handed both of them a small dish with a biscuit on it, a tiny disposable plastic carton of grape jam nestled against the warm bread. She lastly set down a butter dish before stealing a glance at both of them, giving Jake another flirtatious wink before she disappeared into the kitchen. Dirk's gaze seemed unfocused and far away once he opened the steaming biscuit and spread in the butter. Biscuits in New York, Jake thought as he took a bite without any spread on it, surely weren't anything like their southern counterparts. He enjoyed the flaky and crumbly disaster as it was, taking the moment to acknowledge it very well may be his last taste of New York if he were to fail in his journey.
Lunch, which was more of a brunch in Dirk's opinion, was quiet and dry as the food; the atmosphere held a tense and secretive air about it. Only a few words were exchanged after the food had came, most of their speaking was about meanings of contact and ways to meet again. Once they finished their drinks, Dirk gave a gentle nod to Jake, and the two split the bill. While paying at the front counter, Jake gifted Roxy a generous tip. A forebodingly cold wind whipped the two men as they exited the shop and headed off their separate ways.