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Sturm had been sent a message with an address, and one she would well recognize; the neighborhood alone gave it away, long before she arrived, to say nothing of the entire affectation of everyone who side-eyed her on the way in. But this was the appointed time, and the appointed place, and no one gave her any trouble. It wasn't a building; it was actually a park, a quiet-ish little side park in a neighborhood, one of the many neighborhoods that K&A knew as their own. This was where they lived, worked, ate, celebrated, this was their turf. Why hide in a building? No need.
And so a man, wiry and lean, with sunken in cheeks and a full head of hair but for a slightly receding hairline, revealing a pointed widow's peak of jet black, sat on a park bench, a cigarette gripped in between his slightly yellowed teeth, puffing.
Sturm arrives at the specified time, wearing her long black overcoat despite the summer heat. She shoves her fists into her pockets, and they remain there - even as she seats herself on the bench beside the man. Even slouching, she dwarfs most folks - and her shoulders are broader than the average by far. "Bum one?" Her voice is a low grumble, and she gestures to the man's cigarette with a slight nod. God, what a surly bitch.
Lean Man glances up at Sturm as she blocks out the sun with her frame, and he pats the bench next to himself. "Why not," he replies, reaching into his breast pocket for the pack and fishing out a dart to hand to her. "Whydontya take a seat here, will ya?" he gestures, pulling a lighter out of his pocket to spark his own cigarette before offering it to her.
She takes the cigarette, tucking it between her lips and then lighting it when the man passes her his lighter. Her lips twist into a frown as she puffs away. Her left hand leaves her pocket long enough to hold the cigarette while she exhales, and then quickly returns once it's resting at the corner of her mouth. "Alright," more grumbling - but at least she's sitting up straight now. "What's the gig? Usual shit?"
Lean Man takes a long, slow drag, then blows the grey smoke back out. "So, I know your old man was tight with us back in the day, and you've been doing your own thing," he starts. "And that's fine with us. But pressure's on. Summer's here, and the heat's around the corner. You've called in a couple favors lately." Another long drag. "Time to collect. On that note, yeah," he huffs a short, dark laugh, adjusting his shirt collar while he smokes, no hands. "It's a touch of the usual shit."
A dark expression crosses Sturm's features as Lean Man mentions her father, and her posture shifts again. Not quite as hunched over as she was at first - but definitely no longer fully upright. "Yep. Figured it'd be like that." There's a pause as she puffs. "So who'm I finding? What'm I stealing?"(edited)
Lean Man twitches his mouth into a smile, and reaches into his pocket, pulls out a folded photograph, and hands it to Sturm. "That'll be Judge Marcus Hayworth. Re-election is coming up and he's finally pulled an opponent, so he's decided to make 'Tough On Crime' his campaign slogan. Thing is, he's got dirty connections leaking out of his ears, with just about everyone except us and JBM, so," he explains, sucking in another lungful of poison air.
"Young kids, sometimes kids don't even have anything to do with us, pickin' 'em up off the street and throwin' the book at 'em. Ten years, twenty years. Over a bag of weed, couple pills, a knife," he sniffs. "So." He draws his thumb across his neck. "He's gotta go."
There's a slight cough, and Sturm shifts again - turning to face Lean Man - peering at him down the bridge of her nose. "... what?"
Lean Man gives a nod of his head. "You heard right, kiddo," he rumbles a laugh. "And now's the time to do it. Every two-bit crook from here to Hoboken would love to take him off the bench, so there will be tons of fingers to point in tons of directions. I ask you cause, well," he leers a grin at her. "You're not exactly on the inside circle, you know? Plausible deniability." Translation: you get pinched and we don't fuckin' know you.
She exhales smoke through her nostrils. "Wet work's not really my gig," she grunts - her voice a low, resonant rumble in her massive chest. "What makes you think I can pull off taking out a fuckin' public figure like this without a shitstorm coming down the pipe?" Translation: What happens if I don't?
"Well, I know you don't have a lot of options, and you know that times being what they are, you can understand how we can't be in the business of doing favors for someone who's more of a liability than an asset," he says, flicking the dead cigarette butt to the ground and then drawing another, lighting it with rote familiarity, and then pulling it to his lips. "So don't be a liability."
"S'what I figured." She takes a final drag from her own nearly-spent cigarette. Sturm rolls her shoulders, pulling herself up off the bench to her full, imposing height of 6'11". "That it, then?" Unspoken: Or would you like to literally fuck me here, too.
The Lean Man knuckles his fist into his chin, and a gross, bone-cracking sound pops. "That's it," he agrees, his manner calm, grizzled, grey. "Don't take your time."
"Yep," she grunts. Sturm flicks the butt of her cigarette to the sidewalk and grinds it out with her boot.
... and then she shoves her fists back into the pockets of her coat, and she fucks off without another word.
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