Ben's Chili Bowl, Washington DC, Wednesday

[vdistinctive]

Eliot nearly dumped a vat of vegetarian chili on himself the third time the comms squealed in an hour. They were feedbacking like crazy, today, ever since he'd gotten himself into the kitchen of the historic restaurant, and he'd been beyond done with it the very moment it started.

"Dammit, Hardison!" He wasn't quite beyond caring that his 'coworkers' were staring at him, yet, so it was a low hiss. "I thought you said you had these things fixed!"

"Hey! New guy!" The head cook, who had at least a hundred pounds on Eliot and a good seven inches, loomed over him. "Shut yer goddamn yap and keep that chili moving!"

Eliot had damn well better get to punch someone on this job.

[ooc: for the other leveraginians. Leveragites? Levers. Whatever.]

Comments

[geniuswithasmartphone]

Because he lived in hope eternal the answer would be different?

"They're still transmitting," he said, moving around the corner and starting to open his up. "That's what the feedback was. Still gathering data and intel. Not sure where it's being recorded and saved to anymore, but if we could find the dump, we're looking at fifty-odd years of data."

He looked at the tiny microphone, smaller than his thumbnail but still many sizes larger than the far more sensitive equipment in use today. "But why would someone bother to bug a restaurant? Especially that long ago? DC was segregated; none of the politicians or big movers and shakers in the city would have even here. Maybe some organized crime, drugs through the jazz clubs or something, but what else?"

[vdistinctive]

"Thought you said this place stayed open during the riots in the sixties," Eliot said. "Got special dispensation or whatever." Eliot tossed the bug in the air and caught it again. "Guess now we know why."

He glanced over and saw one of the other cooks staring at him.

"Güero, who are you talking to?"

Eliot shot him a long, very serious look. "The onions. Who else?"

The cook decided not to ask any more questions, today.

[whoisalicewhite.livejournal.com]

"Okay! I'll meet you back at your office!" Parker chirped, shaking hands with the Senator. "I'm so looking forward to this!"

As soon as the Senator was out of earshot, she said under her breath, "In so many ways. Either he wants to get something to blackmail someone, or..."

[geniuswithasmartphone]

"Or there's something on here that he wants," Hardison finished for her. "It ain't like the 60's anymore. This place is super-popular. Man, Obama's been here to eat. Technically, there could be damn near anything on these."

Now it was making a little more sense. This wasn't one crime syndicate bloodying the nose of another. All someone needed to do was get an injunction to have this place closed for a few days and bam. Anyone who knew where to look could be in and out and nobody the wiser. "The website says that everything in the building's the same as it was in the 60's. Original seats, tables, decorations, the whole nine."

Of course, none of this would be happening if the government hadn't decided that a bunch of black activists had needed spying on. Of course they'd let Ben's stay open and provide such outreach to the community. They'd been profiting of of it.

He punched the wall next to him and then tried to bite back a string of muffled curses. Several tourists turned the corner, took a look at him, hissing and stomping and waving his injured hands, and decided to turn back around.

[vdistinctive]

It was a little sad that at this moment, Parker was the sanest looking one of the bunch of them. "So Jessup hasn't tapped the feed yet," Eliot mused. "He's lookin' for a chance to get his guys in and get the data. We need to take him out and keep this place open at the same time."

[whoisalicewhite.livejournal.com]

"I'll stay on comms and tell you guys what I find in his office," Parker said, then said softly, "We'll make this right, Hardison. Promise. He's not getting what he wants."

[geniuswithasmartphone]

"And I'mma head back to the hotel room, see if I can't track down where the signal's going to," Hardison replied, still shaking his stinging fingers.

Then, more softly, "I know we will, babe. It's what we do. The three of us."