It's difficult to pin down Harry's exact age. Somewhere over forty, probably, though exactly how far over is difficult to tell. He exudes an air of shabby and forced gentility. His black hair is slicked back behind his ears, and has the sheen and colour typical of someone who has discovered Grecian 2000. His features are sharp, and rat-like: he has a pointy nose and his eyes flick from place to place shiftily. On his upper lip is a thin black moustache. When he opens his mouth, he reveals a set of crooked teeth, majorly in need of some dental attention.
He's not a big man - perhaps 5'10" tall, and he's wearing a pinstripe suit that was fashionable twenty years ago, with a red handkerchief shoved into the breast pocket. His black shoes, however, are polished to a fine shine.
He often carries a battered brown-leather briefcase. Hanging from the corner of his mouth is a roll-up cigarette, that doesn't appear to have been made with much tobacco. It's not always lit. When he speaks, he has an English accent, common. Experts and Brits would recognise it as being typical of the East End of London.
Standing 5'5 and with a lean physique, Brooke carries herself like someone who knows she is armed. Her hair is long, dark and wavy- hanging well past shoulder length. Her light green eyes dance with a bold mischief that is almost fae like, and her smile is full of confidence. She moves with a steady, sure gait, but not one that is overly rigid or strict; she's fluid, and graceful, but with a strength about her as well. One suprising thing about this woman, is that despite a body and appearance that is fully feminine, her hands are strong and callused, the kind that speak of hard physical work.
She dresses in form fitting casual attire. Jeans, tank tops, leather jackets, boots and the like. While the clothes work to show off her form, they do not limit or overly inhibit her motions or actions. She also wears a bronze pendant that is in the shape of a crescent moon.
The last of the morning rush is just starting to filter out. Business men running to their offices after their Bloody Mary's or Vodka and cranberry. Brooke is at the bar, closing out the drawer for the shift and talking lightly with one of the usual patrons.
A weasel-faced man sticks his head through the door, looks right and left with quick motions, and then steps in. He's dressed in an outmoded pinstripe suit with a red handkerchief sticking out of the breast pocket, and carrying a brown leather briefcase. He sort of sidles up to the bar and beckons to Brooke. "'ere love," he says, lips baring in a smile that reveals a mouth full of teeth badly in need of dentistry. "Got any proper beer? Not the cat's piss that you Yanks usually drink." He speaks with a strong English accent.
Brooke looks over to the newcomer, eyes widening in brief amusement. "Got Guinness on tap. Which, ya know. Is real beer. Ya need a menu too?"
"Guinness?" Harry says, screwing up his nose. "Oh, I suppose so. It's not real beer, because the micks make it. But it'll do." He pauses. "'ere love, it just so 'appens that I 'ave suffered a bit of a reversal of late, due to an equine velocity misestimation. So, could you put it on the slate, or even better, tell me who happens to own that fine motor outside, the Chevelle. 1970 or I'm much mistaken."
Brooke looks curiously at the man, her eyes taken a darker edge for just a moment. "You're talking to a mick, and oddly enough, I somehow don't feel all that inspired to put one, on the slate, as you put it. And what about the car?"
Harry grins even wider. "You're from the bogs! That's great." He drops his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't tell anyone, I'm a quarter oirish myself. We're practically countrymates, especially when viewed from this distance." He offers his hand. "Harry Hall, weary traveller, knight of the road."
Brooke rolls her eyes up at that, but reaches a hand out to give him a brief shake. "Well mate," she offers, "You're still not getting a drink for free. And what're you asking about the car for?"
"Oh, no particular reason," Harry says. "It's just it seems such a shame for such a beautiful vehicle to be without a radio system. What better than to drive along the opne road, with your favourite tunes ringing out? Just seemed such a pity that whoever owned it could possibly be without. And given my line of work, I thought I might be able to help that person out. Is it yours?"
Brooke leans over the bar now, an intense look on her face. "Harry. Let me tell you something about Americans and their classic cars. They're classic, because they represent a time in our country when things were pure and simple. You don't spend every penny you earn on a car like that, every hour off the clock putting her back together, only to drop some modern, hi def stereo system into it. There's not a piece of that car that is not factory stock. And yes. She's mine."
"Oh, I understand the value of a classic chassis," Harry says, with a wink. "But no radio at all, that's tragic! How can you listen to the Moody Blues?" His brow furrows. "Tragic, I say."
"There's a radio in it, I can get the local stations. There's nothing tragic at all about that." Brooke pulls back and shakes her head. "Salesman or con artist. One of the two. Either way, make sure you keep your business on the outside of the bar, alright?"
"No radio," Harry says, eyes wide with honesty. "I was looking at it on my way in, as it's such a fine car, and I noticed - no radio." He lifts his hands. "'onest to god. And I thought, that's an opportunity there. And maybe a beer in it for me too. Being an 'onest sort of gent."
"Radio yes. Stereo system with tape deck, cd, mp3 input and twelve speakers. No. And I don't want one." Brooke grumbles, "I may just give you a beer to shut you up though Harry. So you're new into town then or something?"
"Just blown in, and getting my feet back under me," Harry says. "Though I am hurt and hupset that you do not believe me enough to check whether or not you have a radio still in your car. And I would never sully such a classic car with something that uncouth. It just so happens that I have recently laid my hands on an entirely appropriate piece of kit. As good as old, so to speak. But my offense at your doubting my honesty will not prevent me from taking advantage of your kind offer, and when the opportunity arises I shall repay your generosity."
Brooke looks at the newcomer, her eyes getting hard. "You better be fucking kidding me man. No one would steal a radio that is thirty five years old." The rag is thrown to the ground as she literally hops the bar and makes a run for the car.
The car is entirely undamaged, but there is no radio inside it. It looks like it's been removed by an expert - not a single scratch or broken wire or anything.
Brooke stares at it, "Oh what the fuck!" The girl drops the expletive both easily and loudly, then storms back into the bar. Her eyes are hard on the man, and whether he's an innocent passerby or not, she seems to have pegged him otherwise. "You did it. I'm calling the cops." And sure enough, she reaches for the phone.
"Now now, no need for that," Harry says. He leans forward. "I mean, think of all the hassle of having the cops round here, asking questions, taking *away* the hevidence. You know, they hold on to the hevidence for years. Never give it back." He opens the briefcase. "Now, if you'll just pour me that beer, and chat to me while I drink it, why, the next time you step outside of your door, maybe you'll have a new *very similar indeed* radio, all working and everything."
Brooke glares at the man now, rage in her eyes. If one didn't know better, they would almost wonder if that was Luna pulsing in her veins. "My roommate is a cop. Don't give me your shit. No one fucks with my car. I've done much worse than call the cops for such offense." The fingers continue to dial.
Harry goes for looking hangdog. "OK, I'll pay for the beer, and I'll fix the car for free." He looks morose. "Just stop dialling the cops, *please*. And if you have any complaints, I'll stand there while you call them."
Brooke looks at the man, staring him down for the moment with icy daggers for eyes. "Fine. Now. You get your beer /after/ and if you so much as breath on that car wrong, you're in for a load of trouble. Let's go. Now."
Harry sighs, gazes longingly at the beer tap, then picks up his briefcase and heads out to the car. "Do you want to open the door, or should I break in again?" he asks, more cheerfully.
Once outside, Brooke stands with her arms folded over her chest and her hand ready on the cell phone. She unlocks the car and opens the door, nodding for him to get to work. "Ya know pal. You'd have gotten a lot further just walking in and saying nice things about the car."
One minute. That's how long it takes before the radio is back in place. "That's boring," Harry says, finishing off. "Like to keep me hand in with the old radio stealing. Normally, I'm a businessman on the up and up." He looks shifty. "More or less. There you go, anyway, all sorted. I'd have been quicker, but I was being careful." He takes out the handkerchief from his pocket - which looks clean - and gives the radio and dash a quick polish, and smiles. "Now about that beer?"
Brooke looks over the job he's done and, still keeping an eye on him nods. "Alright. In you go." She waits for him to remove himself from the car and then gives it a look herself, as if making sure nothing else is missing now. A glance goes to the glove box and she eyes the shifty man. "You just went after the radio right?" She steps out and shuts the car up again.""On my honour," Harry protests, putting his hand on his heart. "I didn't even scope the hubcaps." He heads back to the bar, carrying his briefcase along with him. "Do you ever sell any Wolf Woods Merchandise?" he asks. "You know, postcards, snow globes, little ceramic wolves? I've got a job lot coming in."
Brooke looks to the man and shakes her head, eyes rolling. "You are something else. No. And we're not looking to get involved with anything like that in here." She walks around the bar opening this time and pulls a glass from the rack, filling it up with Guinness and shoving it over. "Ya mess with my car again- and it won't be the police I am calling on you."
"Got friends with big sticks?" Harry asks, eyes twinkling as he takes a slug of his pint. "I got friends too. Well, sort of friends. Associates. Yes, definitely associats. Colleagues." His smile gets wider. "Wanna play "my friends are scarier than your friends"?" His manner is jesting, rather than threatening.
Brooke gives him a smirk. "I'd win. Trust me on that one." She gets back to the bar and starts cleaning up again. "So you really from Europe or is that part of your act too?
"Born and bred in the East End of London, love," Harry replies. He reaches inside the case again and pulls out a little ceramic wolf. "Sure you won't reconsider - lovely bit of work this." He holds it on his palm. It's not a lovely bit of work. It looks actively cheap. "I call this one "Ears". Cos it has some."
Brooke shakes her head, "No. Listen. Harry. You're not on my good side. So cut the sales pitch. You got a beer. You can sit here and talk casual like, like normal folks do at a bar, or you can drink in silence and get out."
Harry mournfully puts the wolf away, stroking its head as he does so. "As I was saying, yeah, I'm from Barking originally. Long way from home and a long road to get here." He sups from his beer, then looks hopeful again. "Look, I feel bad about annoying you and about, y'know, yer car. Maybe I could make it up to you?"
Brooke lifts a brow, "Why would I believe for one minute, you are being sincere Harry?" The girl shakes her head again. "First impressions pal."
Harry drains his beer. "Yeah, but they ain't always right, are they. Who knows, I might be the most useful person you meet today." He grins. "Thanks for the beer, love." He does up his briefcase and prepares to leave.
Brooke chuckles, "I ain't holding my breath on that one. Don't get yourself in trouble Harry." She goes back to the register and taps out a few keys, head shaking again. "Fuckin' nut."