2011 06 20: Call Triple A

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Mission Name: Call Triple A
Date of Mission: June 20, 2011
Locale: 7-11 - Hell's Kitchen - Manhattan

Dalton's car breaks down in a bad part of town; it doesn't seem to cause Crewe much worry.


dalton crewe

Put-put-put-put-pfffffff.

That's the sound of a car breaking down in front of the 7-11 in Hell's Kitchen.

HELL'S KITCHEN.

An area that's considered to be off-limits for someone of Dalton's social rank, as he yells into his cell phone. Smoke farts out of the exhaust pipe as he drives his Aunt Mildred's hand-me-down towards the open parking space.

The young man gets out of his car.

"Ugh. How the frack should I know?! Yes, it's automatic. No, I don't have a manual?! What year? Did they make manuals in 1979?" Dalt questions the person on the other line, clearly flustered.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the plate glass window of the 7-11, a few customers turn their heads to look if only to see who's yelling into the phone. Among these patrons - a rough sort to the letter of the word - there's a tallish blonde who pays more attention to not running her Slurpee over the top of the cup. Of course, the slamming and yelling in the phone cause her to give the handle a jerk at just the wrong time, and a jet of the carbonated frozen slush shoots into the cup and explodes it out the top in a fruity, sticky volcano.

"God-fucking-DAMNIT!" Crew howls, tossing the drink away. "Now I have to get another cup, and pay for TWO! And someone's going to have to clean up the mess!" she adds with a look toward the clerk at the counter. With a look of disgust, she turns on her heels and marches straight for the door, throwing it open and storming into the parking lot to 'help' with this boy's car troubles.

"No-no-no-no, no WAIT," Dalton pleads, then the other line goes dead. "Aw, crap!"

He's kind of freaking out now.

Never mind the five-foot-eight blonde who's practically bulldozing her way outside to see him — or strangle him. At least, that's the way Dalt sees it as the hot chick storms straight forward, and he lowers the cell phone away from his ear. "Oh hi!" He waves at Crewe as she marches into the parking lot. There's a jolly old smile for her too. He starts heading towards the stranger — bad idea — and slips the cellular back into his herringbone trouser pocket. "Do you by any chance know if they made manuals for Triumph Dolomites back in 1979?" Blink. Blink.

For the moment, her advance is stopped. With a jaunty sideways thrust of the hips, hands planted firmly on there, Crewe just stares him down. That of course, gives him a totally good look at the Three Wolf Moon shirt she's rocking; it's not the first time, given the aged look of the thing. "What the effing fuck are you talking about?"

"Car's older than me…and, isn't that a damn movie? Dolomite?" Then out comes the accusatory finger pointing. "All I know," Crew says, emphasizing the words with points of her finger as she gets close enough to tap his chest, "is that your yelling cost me a Slurpee. And I got it all down my shirt, man! I mean, COME ON!" She huffs, and throws her hands up, spinning around. "You're buying me a new one, you know."

There's a third blink from Dalt as he scritches his head, and glances at Crewe from head to toe. Huh. Seems as though he totally missed the slushie staining her tee-shirt. "Yeah, I sort of figured you weren't too happy to see me."

Sort of?

Either he's on really bad meds, or he forgot to take them. No one could possibly be that stupid, right?

In any case, the prepped-out yuppie doesn't dwell on it. He gives Crewe a carefree shrug, and cants his head towards the 7-11. "Here, I'll buy you another Slurpee, and pay for the shirt."

Dalt doesn't bother to wait for her as he makes it to the glass door, and pulls. "After you?"

"If that's your attempt to get me to strip, nice try little man," Crewe replies with a chuckle. "Cherry Slurpee stains don't show up on black t-shirts real well, and since you got it on my shoulder and sleeve and all where it's black…" she starts, but never finishes. Before following him in, she takes one detour, to lean in the car and check out the transmission.

"Your tranny's an automatic, sugartits," she says with a pat on his cheek - the one on his face - as she slides past him and into the store. "Don't worry, don't worry. This fine young man is going to make it right," Crewe calls out while holding her hands up in (perceived) adulation that nobody in the store is giving.

Dalt looks a bit surprised as she pats his cheek, frowning, then raising those golden arches one would call eyebrows. "Lord — I'm pretty sure feeling sticky isn't the most pleasant way to end the night." He doesn't seem particularly offended by her earlier comment, about him attempting to get her out of her shirt, but now that she mentions it, he smiles at that. "You're a doll, but hitting on strangers like that without even learning their names isn't really my style."

Dalton heads over to the slurpee machine, grabbing two jumbo-sized cups like a happy-go-lucky kid. "So you like cherry, huh? Yeah, I haven't had one of these since I was seven. You want an extra large one, right?" He starts filling one up.

"If I had a fucking nickel…" she muses idly at his very last comment. "Yeah. Whatever. You're paying after all." He gets to fill them up this time, and while she could be petty, and do something awful like clap and shout when he's about to get them full and surprise him, Jessica just rests patiently, leaning on the machine like some kind of blonde chick Fonz. "Hey, don't I know you from somewhere?" The question comes with her cocking her head to the side a little, checking out his features…playing coy, even though she's like 99% that she's seen him before in the papers and trash mags.

Once he finishes filling the first one, Dalton takes one of the big Solo lids and snaps it right on top. He reaches up to pull on the lever of the machine, watching the cold red slush make little swirly patterns inside his cup.

"Sure you do," he says easily. "Page Six, Us Weekly, Star Magazine…"

And he says it like it's just a fact of life. There's nothing particularly arrogant or complaisant in his tone to indicate that he wants to be noticed.

"But that's not particularly fun to talk about. I mean, my brother doesn't have a problem talking about himself to the press, but I usually like to stay out of it."

Crewe claps her hands together and grins, appearing at the very least to be authentically delighted by her realization that he's been in the tabloids at some point. "I knew it! I knew I saw you before. You're one of those kids…the ah, the Senator's kids, aren't you?" Apparently, he's a little D-lister! "Damn, how friggin' small is this world, for real? I'm pretty sure I saw your sister out the other day!"

Oh lord. The 'I saw your sister' statement causes him to choke on his spit, as Dalt grabs one of the Slurpees and offers it to Crewe. Luckily, with the lid on, there's no major spillage this time.

"Please tell me she wasn't drinking," young prepster pleads, swirling his slushie around a bit before taking a drink from the cup. No straw.

He doesn't seem particularly comfortable talking about her, what with the tabloids giving his baby sis hell.

"She wasn't sloshed, if you know what I mean? She could've been, during the movie or whatever. I wasn't paying attention." Crewe picks at the drink with the original spoon straw things that only 7-11 can muster, shrugging at the comments. "I didn't see her carrying any bottles either. Popcorn and soda. But yeah, the press says she's kind of a lush."

Dalton's pale green irises fly skyward, as if to say, here we go again. "Frack'in press, sheesh." He purses his lips. After taking another long, deliberate gulp from the Slurpee, he moves over to the cash register to pay for their drinks. He throws a few dollar bills on the table, not really paying attention to the amount of money there.

"Keep the change."

Whatever it was, it's more than enough, judging by the way the cashier looks at it.

"Yeah, please don't believe everything they write," Dalt starts, eyeing Crewe. "You know how the tabloids can be." Shrugging his shoulders back slightly, he stretches his back then resumes to change the subject. "Your teeshirt, by the way? I know you said it's not going to stain, but I still feel bad about causing an accident. If you want, I can buy you another one tomorrow." He's not really asking her out; guess he's just trying to be a nice guy.

"Dude…chill. It's cotton. It'll wash out. If everyone threw shirts away when they spilled soda shit on them, well…I guess t-shirt makers would have a lot more money. Besides, sounds like you could use all the dollars and cents you can manage to get that jalopy out there fixed up. It might be a shock to you, but, that thing's kind of a piece of shit." All through it, Crewe sounds totally unconcerned bordering on emotionless, using a shrug to explain it all away. "I just only had enough for one Slurpee," she adds.

"Alright, if you say so," Dalton flashes Crewe one of his famous picture-perfect, pap-ready smiles, then heads straight for the door. "Nice to meet you, by the way!" He waves at Crewe as he pushes up against the exit, disappearing outside. He's going to make another phone call once he gets back to his broken piece of crap car.


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