neverleftharlan | (no subject)

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It had been a while since Raylan had gone far from Lexington for an assignment, the last time being his trip to California, he was fairly sure. Chicago was not his comfort zone, though the stigma of a southern accent did allow for most people to underestimate him. Just another Dixieland moron out of his league in the big city.

He stuck a leg out as his soon-to-be-informant staggered out of a bar apparently owned by a local mafia thug, Marcone, and the man - more of a boy in Raylan's opinion - crashed headlong to the ground and threw up on his way there.

Raylan grimaced. "Now, that just figures. Folks like you never can tell when they've had too much, and can't hold it even if they do."

He kicked the kid, lightly, to make sure he was conscious. The boy groaned and rolled over to show a recently broken nose and chunks of something Raylan didn't want to spend time identifying smeared over his face. Early twenties if that, with ragged brown hair that needed washing and scars from a teenage life of zits and fistfights, if Raylan was any judge.

"Evening," he said, and touched the brim of his hat. The kid stared at him. Raylan waited, then said, "This is where you say hello."

The kid tried to spit at him and Raylan brought the heel of his boot down between the boy's legs. The boy doubled up and rolled back onto his side with a squeaky wheeze.

"I do believe we'll try that again. Good evenin'. I'm Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens, and I would like to ask you a few questions."

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She actually listens to him this time and keeps her mouth shut. But that doesn't mean she's happy about it - Lia's now dividing her time between glaring at Raylan and keeping her ears open and nose up in case Marcone's people suddenly pop up. You don't know that can't happen. From the stories she'd picked up, the guy was basically a mafia bogeyman.

...Raylan's off to see a wizard. The wonderful wizard of Chicago. She snorts to herself quietly because on the one hand, she's got Judy Garland in her head now, and on the other, wizards? Seriously? What even.

Lia doesn't quite grasp the hypocrisy of a werewolf having such thoughts re: wizards.

"Come on," the boy whispers. "Just. Please. I don't want to get involved with those guys."

Raylan smiles, looking very like a hawk about to rip into a mouse. "No, son, you don't want to get involved with me. See, this Dresden fella, we've got a witness and two sets of prints tying him to a little explosion down in Lexington that took out half a city block and three civilians with it, not to speak of this little old military man, owned an ice cream shop in the middle of the blast."

He leans in close enough that the brim of his hat brushes against the boy's sweaty forehead. "I liked him. So as I see it, you've two options. The first, you tell me what I want to know and I send you on your way. And I know you have the information - read over your rap sheet before wandering up this way, see. Second option, well. I try my hand a reorienting your insides before I run you up for possession."

It's getting later in the day now, and Lia is starting to hear the upswing in foot traffic as the regulars start making their way toward their favorite watering holes. Dump though this may be, a few of them probs call it their dump and she really doesn't want to have to deal with more law enforcement types than she already has on her hands.

"You might wanna try wrapping shit up right now or move to a slightly less obvious place to beat the crap out of him," she says under her breath and getting tetchier by the second. "'Cause we're about to start getting some company back here and if you want to turn this into a real party, I'd still rather not."

And some of the voices she's straining to hear are deep and big - no played out old farts and chicks with their prime long past them. And as much as she can take care of herself and has in the past, Raylan should well know that Lia much prefers to run.

Raylan draws one hand back to rest on his belt, two fingers brushing the edge of his star. He holds his jacket back just enough to show the badge off to anyone who might look their way. "No, I think we're good here. Let his known associates see him chatting with the Fed, save myself a bruised knuckle or two on his thick skull."

He smiles at the kid. "What do you think?"

"Fuck fuck - okay, all right, Marcone is probably at this fitness club, really exclusive, that he owns downtown. The other guy, Dresden..." There's a long pause, like he's still not sure he should be saying any of this. "I've heard he likes to hang out at this freak bar, some place can Anals or Flannelly's or something."

"...Anals." Raylan massages the bridge of his nose.

"I don't know, something Irish!"

"Something Irish, in Chicago." He taps one finger against his badge, getting impatient now.

"I think it's... It's like Mac-something, okay? That's all I know! I swear to Christ that's it."

Raylan waits a moment, then brushes the brim of his hat with two fingers and steps back. He lets his jacket fall back and cover the star again. "There now. That wasn't so hard." He glances at Lia and gestures down the block. "If you'll excuse me, I need to go look for a 'freak bar called MacFlannelly's."

He's being sarcastic. It's kind of hard to tell.

Shock of shockers, the badge does little to absolutely fucking nothing for Lia's calm factor. In fact it just makes her grip her duffel strap a little more tightly and try and back up against the wall. She taps her foot impatiently, just wanting this bit to get over and done with so they can get gone. She's so wanting, in fact, that she doesn't even make one snide or sarcastic remark about a bar called 'Anals', even though it's totally ripe for it.

"The hell you're excused," she mutters under her breath and shoves her hands in her pockets. "Going after freaking Marcone by yourself without any backup, I should just let you go 'cause this is just way too stupid for fucking life."

...Yet she makes no actual move to leave him to his obviously well-deserved fate of fuckedness. And eventually she just glares up at him, again with the impatient foot-tapping.

"Well? Start looking already, Sherlock."

He's already got his phone out, and is talking quietly to someone on the other end. He glances at Lia, rolls his eyes and starts walking. "Yes, that sounds right. Thank you kindly. I'll let you know what I find."

Raylan hangs up and pockets the phone, noting the people walking past to the bar as he starts walking away. Vomit-boy is long gone. "I told you, I'm not going after Marcone. I'm going after one of his powder men."

Rumored to be at McAnally's pub. Apparently there are only so many places in Chicago that are 'weird and Irish-sounding' . He unlocks his rental, opens the driver's-side door, and looks at her again. "We'll talk later. You have my phone number, and unless you dumped it since the last time we spoke, I have yours."

"Same difference, man," Lia retorts as she jogs a few steps after him until she's walking beside him. "And same amount of dumb."

There's a moment of staring back until she sighs and rolls her eyes back at him. Wondering when the hell she hit her head and if she qualifies for one of those handicapped parking passes, she walks around the front of the car to the passenger side. Hand on the door, she shakes her head at herself, then looks back and waits for him to unlock the rest of the doors. "And what if I did ditch it? Whatcha gonna do about it?"

This is, without a doubt, the most retarded decision she's ever made in her life.

He shrugs. "I'll get you a new one."

Raylan swings down into the driver's seat without bothering to tell her not to come. She's got her mind set on it, and at the very least it means she's not somewhere else in the city at night, getting attacked by werewolves or something, so be it. He punches the button to unlock the doors and waits for her to get in before starting the car. "If you're coming, you're staying out of the way and if I tell you to hoof it, you go."

"Yeah, but where ya gonna mail it if you can't phone stalk me, Hansen-bait."

There's almost a grin of triumph as she pulls the handle, but it's gone by the time the door's open. Sliding in, she shoves her duffel down at her feet, handle up - just in case running has to happen, there's no fumbling for a grip.

Lia side-eyes him and straps in. "Whatever, man." There's a primo joke to be made about paws versus hooves, but she lets it pass. She's sure that if it gets to push and shove territory, she won't need him telling her to make book given that she's smart enough to smell that time coming a mile away.

...Then again, she is here in the first place. Which just makes her flop her head back against the seat and groan to herself because. Her common freaking sense is not allowed to go on vacation like this. There should be notices and substitutes and. She doesn't even know.

"Well, I was planning on just handing it to you, but if you're determined to be alone and untraceable that's your business."

He pulls out into the Chicago traffic and finds the way to the pub without too many wrong turns. By the time they get there, he's decided he really doesn't like Chicago. It's all towering buildings and unfriendly storefronts and people who look like they think they know better than the rest of the folks they're sharing sidewalk with.

Raylan swings into a parking spot half a block from McAnally's. At least they'll probably have decent drinks, even if this Dresden isn't there. He peers back into the car at Lia. "How useless would it be for me to say you should stay here."

"Maybe it is," she sniffs back, checking out her nails disinterestedly. "S'worked out for me pretty well so far."

...Though she did go and pay good money for that phone. And god knows she hates a waste. So maybe she won't toss it out just yet. But Raylan needn't know such things.

Lia spends the majority of the ride checking out the streets and trying to remember if she's ever been up here before. ...It's been a while, though, and a lot of those days are all blurry, so. Who knows.

She hops out of the car to give him a grade A stinkeye over the roof of the car. "You want a list of just how useless, or just on a scale of one to ten?"

As (bad) luck would have it, Harry's heading into the pub right now, staff in hand, Mouse on his heels. Working a case for the past week may have been good for his ability to feed himself, but... kind of got in the way of remembering to restock his fridge at any point, and he's starving.

Mouse is a little less focused on getting inside as soon as possible - he stops just outside the door, staring intently down the street at Raylan and Lia. Harry stops too, one hand on the door, and frowns slightly. "What? Do we have something against cowboy hats now?"

The tone might be flippant, but that doesn't mean he's not evaluating the pair as a threat. Survive enough Red Court hits, and you start to learn to recognize one coming. They... really don't look it, and it's hard to imagine even the Red Court would take a shot at him this close to neutral territory. And even if they would, heading inside should solve that problem in the... very, very short term. Harry eyes them for a moment longer, and then opens the door, jerking his head for Mouse to follow him. "C'mon."

Raylan shakes his head, deciding not to give more of an answer than that. When they get inside, the hair on the back of his neck prickles in that unpleasant kind of way that tells him there's more going on than he's seeing. The pub itself is nice, clean, well-maintained with a penchant for the number thirteen and old-world decorations. Fits with whole Irish-and-weird theme.

He swallows down the ill-ease, rests a hand on his belt between his star and gun, and wanders up to the counter, keeping an eye on the other patrons and on Lia at the same time. One in particular has his attention, a familiar-looking fella with a dog the size of a small horse.

Raylan nods to the bar tender, touching the brim of his hat in salute. "Hey there. Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens. I'm here looking for a man goes by the name of Harry Dresden - got sent this way when I asked where to find him."

Lia hops right up on a stool while Ray does his law and order dealio and spins to get a good look around the joint. (Oh, yeah, she is the most mature.) Her initial opinion is that it's kinda hokey, definitely hinky, but s'not that bad a place.

Until she sees the giant freaking dog-thing and then it's not a matter of trying not to stare as much as trying to shut her mouth before her tongue dries out. Because seriously. Big is not even the word for it.

She's so stuck on the holy-crap factor that she almost misses the bartender growling something about whether or not she's even old enough to be in here. "Oh, yeah, lemme help ya on that one, guy," she says before fishing out and flashing a damned fine fake ID that says that 'Susie Jackson' is most definitely legal to be here. Pocketing it again, there's not a bit of preamble before she says ever so brightly, "So. Sup with Cujo on steroids over there. That can't be chill with the health inspectors."

Mouse waves his tail gently as Lia looks at him, doing his best to look friendly and harmless. At least... as harmless as a dog that weighs more than she does can look. Harry reaches down absently to scratch behind his ears, listening silently for a moment or two without looking directly at the marshal. What the hell is a US Marshal doing looking for him?

Mac catches his eye, and Harry smiles slightly in apology. He's lucky Mac puts up with him anymore. But hey, at least they're not vampires...

"He's a service dog," Harry answers with a glib smile. "For my anxiety." He rises out of his seat and walks over to meet the marshal at the bar. Mouse stays where he is for the moment, but he's still watching intently. "How can I help you, officer?"

Raylan's eyes travel slowly between Harry and the monster dog, and he nudges his hat back with one thumb to get a better look at the man who blew four people to shit. Seeing him here, apparently at home and waiting for a drink, stirs that particular kind of fury in Raylan that drives cases to a close. Or a fist through someone's face, depending.

"Deputy," he says. "Not officer." Apparently as an afterthought, he adds, "Or marshal. Either one works."

He gestures back to Harry's table. "I do beg your pardon, interrupting, I just had a couple questions I needed answered regarding your potential involvement in a case I've been working. Might I join you?

"Yeah, can imagine he does wonders for the nerves, considering he looks like he can basically eat anything that ends up ticking ya off," Lis says with a snort. She'd be lying if she's not currently thinking that hey, she can probably take this puppy down easy if Tall and Scruffy here (...the second one, the one without the hat) decides to get him working. But no one asks what she's thinking, so it's not really a thing.

...Except then Raylan does that specific kind of polite voice and Lia goes still for a second, eyes flicking between Raylan and this Dresden dude, because. Uh oh.

"Sorry. Deputy. Of course - have a seat." Harry glances back to the girl who came in with the marshal as he moves back to the table, her sudden stillness catching his eye. That's... probably not a good sign, and it seems a little weird for a US Marshal to be tailed by a girl who, Harry would bet, is not old enough to legitimately own that ID she's carrying around.

"This is Mouse," Harry announces as he sits down, with a nod to the dog. "He's friendly. Who's your friend, marshal?"

Raylan presents Mouse with his knuckles to sniff, fully aware that this monster could and would take his arm off if Dresden gave the word. "He's part horse," Raylan says. He glances over at Lia and sighs. "Georgiann. I suppose I'm too good-hearted, picking up a hitcher, but being nagged at to get her a meal has surely cured me of that."

He leans back in his chair, hat still set back slightly on his head and a musing look on his face. "I had a dog once. Not near this size, of course, a mutt if you ever saw one, rangy thing and not the best looking. He was a good dog, though. Easy to train, protective, went with me everywhere. I suppose Mr. Mouse goes with you everywhere, being a service dog and all - how do you manage travel? Airplanes and such?"

Raylan pushes back in his chair, lifting the front legs off the ground for a moment before he thumps back down and continues. "Anyway, me and my dog, we went everywhere together, folks knew who was coming the minute they saw that ragged mutt turn the corner. And then one year, we went on up to the picket lines, during a strike against I think Lannaster Coal? We went up to the picket lines, early in the day, watch the scabs come on through, herded by the company's gun thugs. They went down in the mines and got to work."

He smiles at Mac as the man brings over two bottles of ale and leaves again. Raylan takes a sip and whistles. "Damn. Well, about half-way through the morning, they got their powder man working, blowing things up, and my dog - well, the shaking and the rumbling started and he lit out faster than I could catch him. Never saw him again. Is that why you left Mouse here went you went and blew up that block in Lexington?" The question is mild, punctuated by Raylan taking another drink from his bottle. "Bit surprising, considering your anxiety."

Lia slugs Raylan in the shoulder (not hard as she could, but enough to remind him that she can) before she slumps down in the chair next to Mouse while rolling her eyes. Talking about her like she's some kind of freaking stray. "Like you could pay my diner tab if I really got going," she grumbles quietly before settling down for story time. "And I don't freaking nag, okay."

...All right, now she's settled, happy? And she's following along pretty well, one hand idly scratching along Mouse's neck. It's half to have something to do, half to be able to grab the scruff and keep the lug back before shit happens and Dresden calls in for the sic. She's not entirely sure how much of Raylan's yarning is bullshit or not - never mind it's not really the point here, still a legit question. Once Ray pops the question, Lia cocks her head to the side and watches Harry out the corner of her eye.

Right now, if this was a cop show, she'd say something to be the supportive, cautious good partner, like how it's really not a good idea to start fibbing to Raylan here. But it's not a cop show and she's really not looking to be sidekick material, and she's pretty sure Raylan's ornery enough without her poking more. Let it never be said that Lia is entirely without some sense in that head of hers.

"I'm not that fond of airplanes," Harry answers slowly, all his bad feelings about this conversation suddenly ratcheting up to eleven. "I drive everywhere." And travel through the Nevernever when he doesn't have another choice, but somehow he doesn't think Mr. Marshal is going to appreciate or accept that explanation.

Mouse's tail sweeps genially over the floor while Lia scratches his neck, but he glances up at her after a moment, and quirks an eyebrow in silent amusement. He sees what you did there, Lia. It's a nice try, at least.

Harry's attention, meanwhile, doesn't waver from Raylan's face, without coming close to actually meeting his eyes. His eyebrows shoot up and he rocks back in his chair a little as the marshal comes to the point of that little story, picks up his own bottle and takes a drink while he thinks back to what, at the time, had seemed like just a false alarm from the Paranet - just concerning enough to convince him to check it out himself, but nothing came out of it.

"I was in Lexington a little while ago," he says with a faint frown. "I remember there was an explosion while I was there, but I was a little busy at the time to run around blowing up city blocks for fun. I could do that right here in Chicago if I really wanted to."

Mouse turns his head slowly to give Harry what might be a reproving look. Or maybe just dubious that Harry's dumb enough to actually say that. Harry realizes that maybe he should not be so flippant with law enforcement officers who don't know him. "If I was the kind of person to do that sort of thing," he adds blandly.

"I know you were," Raylan says, still amicable. "I have a witness that puts you in the vicinity of the explosion, in fact, not an hour prior to the event. Bit of a stand-out, what with the staff and all."

He takes another pull from the bottle, the friendliness gone from his expression. "I suppose Chicago has a higher population density, you get more bodies for your buck. Was the store you blew laundering money for Marcone, maybe skimming more than their share? That's the simplest explanation that comes to mind, given your history."

Lia interprets the look from Mouse as a cue to scratch more thoroughly, so she does. Firsthand fur knowledge tells her just how itchy that shit can get, and besides, it's just a dog. A hugely weirdly giant dog, so what else can the look mean, right. Of course right.

Never mind that she and said the 'just' a dog are practically mirrors with how they turn to stare at Harry here. Because just. Seriously. Seriously. Is he high? (A quick sniff says no, far as she can tell.) Maybe he's just bonkers then. Who knows.

Then again, she and Raylan could also qualify for white-coat status given that they're here talking to a Marcone powder guy like this. Which just brings her back around to the why did I even come here, man train of thought.

Harry goes very still for a moment, eying Raylan with an expression still carefully blank. It's not like he doesn't know the kind of stories that get around about him, but that doesn't mean being he appreciates having them thrown in his face like this.

"I don't work for Marcone." It's almost too even - he's trying for calm and reasonable, but he can't keep all of the annoyance out of his tone or off his face. "I'm a private detective, I work with the police, and I did not blow up that building."

A few of the patrons who know enough about Harry Dresden to be wary of the things that might happen when he gets annoyed are starting to look a little nervous... which is probably not helping his case with the marshal. Damn it.

A frown, less hostile and more confused, twitches across Raylan's face. Something isn't right here. Dresden's genuinely angry at the suggestion he works for the kingpin. He looks down at Mouse and Lia, then back at Dresden, a new thought making its way into clarity out of instinct.

"...Know anyone who'd want me to think you did?"