milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Charles Monroe is not usually interrupted in the middle of his evening by the bar appearing in the men's restroom at the Metropolitan Opera. He's less irritated than amused at it happening, though, and so he continues in, reaching up to his throat to pull the collar of his shirt undone, tie--formal, black bow--swiftly pulled open. They're not uncomfortable as such, but the idea of tying a very small nose around his throat has never struck him as completely sane. Still, dress codes are dress codes.

He'll just be over here, shucking his jacket and sitting in a far more comfortable chair than the one he was in twenty minutes ago.

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Clementine Johnson has an eye for men. Everybody knows that. Her heart is impulsively and already totally spoken for. And yet a pretty face turns her head.

She approaches with beer in hand, settling down in the chair opposite Charlie's. "Nice suit."

He smiles up at her as his head turns, elegant and polished.

"Well thank you. I was engaged for the evening, prior to being interrupted by this place," he says, looking up and around; Charles' gaze lands on her uniform.

"Or should I say thank you, deputy? I'd hate to get into a tangle on the wrong side of the law."

She smiles - rare that someone actually knows her rank just by looking at her uniform. "Where were you before bar kidnapped you?"

"The Metropolitan Opera," he answers, "New York City. And you, Miss...?" Charles leave the address open if she wants to give him her name; otherwise, it stands.

She's less impressed by the opera part than she is by the idea of New York. "I've never been to New York. But I've always wanted to go."

"Clementine Johnson. Reno PD." She automatically offers him her hand.

Charles doesn't really expect anybody to be impressed by either part; he's too used to seeing both on a daily basis to be enamored with the city's grandeur. But, polite is polite; he takes Clementine's hand in his--his left, nails trim and clean, no rings--and gives another gentle smile.

"Charles Monroe, licensed companion," he echoes her tone of introduction, eyes sharp and focused on her as if she's the only person in the room. "It's a true pleasure."

Clementine's a 'wow' girl; she believes wholeheartedly in glamor, in excitement, in the thrill of the city.

She just had a manicure; her nails are camera-ready, though several are chipped thanks to her rough-and-tumble job.

"Licensed companion?" she repeats. It sounds unique, anyway. She keeps her own gaze back even and bright, and somewhat sly.

He only waits a beat to elaborate a little. "People pay me for company, among...other things," he says, perfectly clear in implication.

Clementine - once she understands what he's talking about - gives a brief nod of her head. There are plenty of prostitutes in Reno, where it's legal for the most part to ply the world's oldest trade (and her mother piles the illegal part of it, walking the streets), so it's not a big deal to her. "I hope they pay you well. Johns love stiffing their pickups."

"You could say they do," he says--he won't reveal how much he actually goes for unless someone's making an appointment--just smiling lightly, a bare quirk of one side of his smile tipping up.

"Though mostly, I should say, it's not johns as much as janes for me." He's licensed for both sexes, yes, and on occasion he does sleep with men, but it's much rarer than with women.

"Aha!" Clementine's never had to pay for it, so the idea of male prostitutes servicing female clients is somewhat of an alien concept to her (even though, quiet obviously, she knows they exist - Heidi Fleiss tried to start up an all-male brothel in the area at one point, after all. Didn't go well.). "At least they make it up to you. Unless you hate the opera?"

"It's not my favorite pastime, but it's far from horrible. At least my friend will make it up to me later," he says with a tiny grin, though it shows none of the marks of his professional smile.

He's on his own time, and work doesn't factor into that. And he happens to know that particular friend is not at all interested in rolling between the sheets with him. (He's okay with that.)

She smirks. "It's my favorite past-time. I never could sell it, though; rather do it for free." This is why she's never done prostitution in the past, even though the opportunity has arisen.

When Urquhart sees him, he comes straight over. "Have you got a moment?" he asks, plainly, one professional to another.

"For the time being it appears I have quite a few," he says equally plainly. "What can I do for you?"

"I've got a somewhat strange proposition," Urquhart says, "but I'd pay well."

Charles raises a brow. "Define strange, before I agree or decline," he says.

"Strange as in, I pay, and somebody else benefits without knowing I paid," Urquhart says.

"So you want to pay me to offer my time to someone else. Well that's...unusual," he says, blinking. "And not usually how my setup works. Dare I ask who it is that's supposed to be benefiting?"

"Teja," Urquhart says.

It's a very good thing Charles didn't have anything in his mouth, because at that he'd have spat it out.

"You're kidding."

"No," Urquhart says. "I'll explain if you want me to?"

"Please," he invites with a half-wave of his hand. "By all means."

Urquhart sits.

"Well," he begins, "that man isn't getting laid enough. I doubt he's getting laid at all, and it shows. He keeps bothering me and my friends, just because he can, and he disapproves of me. I think some sex might cure that irritating self-righteous behaviour."

"...And you're asking me because?"