6275/Chasing Tail

Chasing Tail
Date of Scene:	19 May 2021
Location:	Duke of Gloucester Pub, New York
Synopsis:	Looking for an angle on Peggy, Dottie (aka 'Kate') approaches Constantine at a bar.
Cast of Characters:	John Constantine, Dottie Underwood

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John Constantine has posed:
Bawdy singing rises up from the short steps down into the Duke of Gloucester. The pub is one of a few classic English pubs that serves New York's diaspora of Brits living abroad. It is not a gastropub, an Irish bar, or a Scottish diner. It does have the three things all true British pubs should have: bad food, warm lager, and a proper fireplace. It's a good cross-section of Britons, ranging from squinty-eyed Merchant Marines on leave to a dignified looking gentleman in a tweed suit reading the paper under a picture of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth.

It's a sea shanty that they're singing, at least a dozen men at the end of the bar linked in a human chain of shoulders over arms. Each holds a glass of lager in hand, and their familiarity with the song turns it away from mere drunken karaoke and more into an impromptu choir.

"It's a long way to Tipperary! It's a long way, to go." The men are belting baritone lyrics, but a few women in the crowd are chiming the upper registers in relatively pleasant alto voices. The lyrics become much more perceptible once inside the close, crowded, warm pub, and it thrives with boisterous energy.

The final chorus closes, and a lanky Brit with blonde hair and a devil-may-care expression steps into the center of the singing ring. "It's a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know!" His voice carries clear and lyrical, harmonizing with the fellow assaulting a piano in the corner. He sidles up to a stout redheaded matron until she giggles despite herself, and her husband and John make a faux exchange of wagging fists before he sidles off again. "Goodbye, Picadilly! Farewell, Leicester Square. It's a long long way to Tipperary, but my heart's right there!" The piano comes down on a fumbling few notes and the crowd breaks into cheers while the circle disperses and normal drinking resumes.

"Blimey, Bill, are you gonna learn to play that thing or are you just gonna 'ave at it hammer and tongs with those sausages you call fingers?" John's interrogation of the pianist is bellicose but good-natured, and the rotund old sailor at the keys squints at John from under his blue derby cap, with a well-salted expression.

"Yer allus free t' take it up with me fat arse, John," the sailor says, dourly. He's already playing something new, a mindless shanty rhythm that might or might not be a real song. "Or pay to fix the bloody jukebox already."

"And miss this?" John drums fingertips across the upright piano. "Perish the thought."

John retires to tall, round table with one barstool chair pulled up to it and sets his beer on the scarred old lacquer surface. A tan overcoat's hanging from a hook nearby. Despite the rather strict prohibitions against smoking in most New York bars, John is fishing a pack of Silk Cuts and a lighter from his coat pockets. The break from the singing seems a momentary respite and John inhales smoke from the cigarette and exhales it skywards, watching it get lost in the slowly rotating fans overhead.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
It's been a little over a week since Dottie first trailed her mark to the D.o.G. Luckily she hadn't frequented it before, as it's only a few blocks from her apartment. So it's the first time she's come as her local persona: Kate Lloyd, a writer, and recent transplant to the neighborhood.

Her dark hair curls in soft waves over her exposed shoulders, skin peeking from under a dark fitted jacket; the belted tunic dress over leggings and high boots seems both modern and timeless all at once. She smiles, a little nervously, to the bartender, her red painted lips parting to hint at white straight teeth.

What're you having?" A standard question, but one that requires consideration - as if she weren't familiar, as if she hadn't memorized the menus. Dottie peers through the glasses Kate wears and scans the taps, "Um," she says, "I'll try an Old Speckled Hen?"

The bartender's wry grin tells her that she's chosen well. And she flushes ever so slightly at the non-verbal praise. Then she takes her pint and selects a stool further down the bar.

She's brought a book with her, old, worn, and hardbound, it's cloth cover frayed and faded; but she doesn't open it. It just sits on the bar next to her glass. Instead, she turn to the room to take in the crowd. She's looking for someone without appearing to be looking for someone.

John Constantine has posed:
John burns half his cigarette down in a few deep breaths, a man starved more for nicotine than for oxygen. The lanky fellow pauses only long enough to surveil the bar with a quick and habitual glance. Most might peg it as looking for someone coming or going, though the scrutiny's a bit sharper than a drunken barfly merely looking for a missing friend.

Kate's arrival isn't missed; his attention zeroes in on her with piqued interest, though the attention's at least oblique enough not to be leering. He times his movement towards the bar just enough to catch her eyes sweeping back towards him, 'accidentally' making eye contact. Constantine holds his gaze rather pointedly before flashing a cheeky grin at the bookish woman across the bar. A drink's ordered and picked up, and then John disappears momentarily into the milling crowd, vanishing smoothly as a magician.

"Going down to Canterbury, eh?" Constantine's approach to Kate's blindside is equally smoothly timed, and he insinuates himself against the bar next to Kate with careless ease. One finger's got the cover of her book held open so he can read the title page; his other hand still cradles his lager. "Not exactly scholars, this lot," he points out, and gestures at the crowds with his drink. "Or'd you get lost heading to the Library? It's up on Sixth avenue and Ninth street, I believe." Mischevious blue eyes meet Dottie's with an amused glimmer dancing in them.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
When he catches her eye Dottie lowers her lashes and ducks her head, both to signal a shy flirtatious pleasure and to conceal her triumph. He was here! What a fortuitous 'accident'.

And when he speaks she startles, feigning surprise. "But this *is* a pilgrimage," she quips back. She raises her glass to toast the shanty singing common man, who harkens to the continuity of history. "Besides these words are in their blood. Their souls still know the old songs." Then she reddens prettily at her bold earnestness. And hides her expression in her drink.

John Constantine has posed:
John turns a page or two, and blinks, then squints at the text. "Woah. That's not the Queen's English, is it." The question's a rhetorical one; he tries to mouth through a few of the words but stumbles on the third line in. "Cor. Well, good on you," John congratulates the woman. The book's allowed to flip shut with a flicker of his fingertips. "Hate to say it though, you won't find a lot of Britons who've got the Tales memorized. I'd wager not a soul here has more than vague school memories of them. All the wives of Harry, now, sure, there's even a song for that one," he allows.

John turns in place to put his back to the bar, elbow resting behind him for support so he's half-facing Kate.

John takes a sip of his lager, sniffs once, and looks Kate over again. "You're here drinking legally so I'll wager you're not doing a project for uni," he reasons. "Americans don't typically care much for British beers, and Jerry here waters his drinks down anyway."

The bartender shoots a dagger glare at John, who grins back cheekily at the fellow before he ambles off. John's eyes return to Kate, and he lifts a brow at her in silent reinforcement of his question.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"It's the Kings' English," Dottie says, grinning, "If you go back far enough. Edward, Richard, Henry..." She takes another sip of beer. She's trying not to lecture. "And you don't have to have a thing memorized for it to sing to you. Here, listen:

    Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
    The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
    And bathed every veyne in swich licour
    Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
    Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
    Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
    Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
    Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne,
    And smale foweles maken melodye,
    That slepen al the nyght with open ye
    (so priketh hem nature in hir corages)
    Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
    And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
    To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
    And specially from every shires ende
    Of engelond to caunterbury they wende,
    The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
    That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke."

Her Middle English is perfectly accented, sonorous and lilting. The poem is chanted, spell-like, a meaning woven through words no longer spoken. She isn't avoiding his question. She's proving a point.

John Constantine has posed:
John's brows rise in mild surprise as she starts reciting the General Prologue; in a dialect of English so ancient that it's almost a foreign language, no less. Silence starts nearby and spreads out soon enough as people turn their attention to her recitation.

The last words linger in the air, muted only by the presence of so many patrons in attendance. When they're sure Kate has concluded, a smattering of applause goes up and a few of the older Brits in attendance daub at their eyes with napkins and sleeves.

"Blimey, I haven't heard proper poetry in a dog's age," murmurs one of the bargoers. "Aye, t'was Canterbury Tales, if I don't miss my guess," adds another.

One of the more well-seasoned longshoremen rises unsteadily, drink in hand. "Twoold blohmin sheme da kinder warrant cop' de paems rit auld langa."

There's a bit of a pregnant pause as no one seems to be on hand to deconstruct that particular dialect, and the group reaction is a hearty approbation of 'ayes!' and drinks raised in toast.

"You know you could probably make a fair quid busking here on the off days," John suggests to Kate with a whimsical tone. "Lots of the old folks here eat that kind of thing up." His expression shifts from something confident and urbane to inquisitive, and the inquisitive expression on his face shifts subtly to something more attentive.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie gives the crowd a little self-deprecating bow and raises her pint in turn. Her eyes sparkle with victory as she smiles at the man next to her. "They deserve the credit," she accedes. "But you shouldn't have disparaged your people so. The Canterbury Tales were written for the likes of them. And every so often the words deserve to be dusted off and appreciated by their native audience."

She is coy and emboldened now that she has won their first battle.

John Constantine has posed:
At that, John purses his lips and looks away in contemplation. A slow nod of acquiescence at the rather cerebral praise she's offering. "Britan's old, lass, yeah," he concedes. "But when you're a nation that old, it's hard to stick to the highlights. Plenty of fine writers and poets in the last .... what, thousand some years?" he hazards.

"Still, I was never much for studying as a lad," John admits, and drains his glass. It's set aside and he beckons the barkeep over. "Bourbon, and make it a proper one. Aye?" he requests.

"Anything much past my fifth forms is just in one ear, out the other," he tells Kate with a grin. "So. Where's a Yank like you pick up on Chaucer?" he inquires. "Did a study abroad thing once upon a time?" he guesses. "Not a lot of people can read it, much less--" fingers wiggle vaguely at Kate. "Perform it the way you did."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
With his assessment, her expression turns sheepish. She finishes her beer to cover the pause in the conversation. "Something like that," she admits. "A semester abroad, a p.h.d. in English Lit." Dottie shrugs as she boasts an unearned education.

When the bartender brings John's drink, she catches his eye. "I'll have the same," she tells him.

John Constantine has posed:
John's fingers close over the shot of bourbon to lift it but he pauses when Dottie requests one of her own. A brow lifts again in minute surprise; straight bourbon's clearly not what he expected the well-read woman to request.

"So yer a doctor who drinks bourbon?" John inquires. There's a speculative humor in his voice. "You must have had a fun time at uni. I thought literary types were all librarians. Y'know, hushing people for sneezing too loud. Skulkin' about the stacks looking for kids snogging in the nonfiction section. What do you do with a PhD in literature, anyway?" he inquires with a convival interest. "Book surgery?"

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie laughs, "You have have a very mistaken mental picture of the collegiate lifestyle. The nerds are the ones doing shots of ouzo while reciting Homeric verse from memory. Classicists will get you shit-faced. And if you're lucky, they'll invite you to their orgy." She winks and sips her bourbon. "And I write. And teach occasionally. And know you know all about me, don't you?"

John Constantine has posed:
"The only time I spent in uni was to do shows for campus parties.," John clarifies. He grins at Dottie. "We'd cram fifty or a hundred people into a basement and jam until the bobbies showed up to evict us all. If the students were lucky, we'd invite them back to the hotel for /our/ orgies." The drinks show up and he salutes Dottie with his, then downs the shot in one gulp.

He exhales the burn skywards and clears his throat once. "I'd say I don't know enough about you, though. Not yet, anyway. Good memory, knack for public speaking. Not quite as shy as you let on, not at first, anyway." He eyes Dottie again, lips pursing. "You're single and looking, but no one's quite lined up for you proper yet. I get the sense you're used to lads underestimating you because you look younger than you are." A knuckle knocks against the wood in thought and his eyes narrow a little. "What are you really out looking for this evening?" he prompts, and there's a little wheedling edge to the inquiry that makes the question seem entirely innocuous.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie lets herself fluster a little too prettily again. "Would you believe a drink and some company?" she asks. He's too slippery an eel for her to be sure she's got him on the hook. But he is interested.

John Constantine has posed:
"The drink, yes," John allows. "But as for the company, that conclusion's a bit dodgy. I mean--" he gestures at the bar. "It's a pub for British expats, luv. Not a lot of great literary enthusiasts here, and there are enough weak chins and bad teeth to make a dentist cry for joy."

He sips his beer briefly and sets it down again. "You've got a book you've clearly already memorized, so it's a conversation prop and not something to idle your time with. You're here looking for /something/," he allows, "but somehow I doubt it's just a drink and company in the carnal sense."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"I don't have the whole book memorized," Dottie protests. "And sometimes I like to reread favorite bits."

She takes another sip of bourbon, for bravery. Kate would dare a little now. "But you're here talking to me, so it worked didn't it?" She grins like she's done something clever.

John Constantine has posed:
"How's that bit go? Even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while?" John's eyes dance with good humor at her rejoinder. "Though I'd have guessed it's because you're not likely to run into a student this far away from the campus," he suggests. "Which I imagine would be a trifle awkward. Fast shag with someone and then seeing them turn up for class the next morning, and knowing why they look a little wrung out. /Bit/ awkward," he notes, and grins again.

"I'm John, by the way," he says, and holds out a hand palm-up for an offer of a surprisingly courteous handshake.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"I'm Kate," Dottie says, allowing him to take her hand in his. "And you've assured me many times already that I won't risk seeing you in my classroom. You're here for the bad teeth and the company, I take it -- so whatever will you do with li'l ol' me?"

John Constantine has posed:
"Well that I'm not decided on," John informs her with a sanguine expression. "I don't think I'm going to make much hustling any games tonight; too many people have come up short playing quoits lately. I'm not even sure what one does with a doctor of literature," he quips. "Set you down somewhere and clumsily recite sonnets? Unless it's been made into a decent film, I'm afraid I don't have much Shakespeare memorized," he advises her.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"Literature is my specialty, John. You wouldn't rob a lady of her charms and graces would you? I can recite all the sonnets your heart desires. But what," she asks him, pausing to pointedly and invitingly sip her bourbon, "do you do?"

John Constantine has posed:
"Wizard work," John says with a breezy candor. "Not a magician, mind. I'm not bloody Copperfield. The occult. Mysticism. All that sort of thing. Lots of nasty things in a city this size," he tells Dot. "Bogguns, sprites, ghouls, even demons sometimes."

John digs in his pocket for a crumpled pack of Silk Cuts and a lighter, and despite the big 'No Smoking' sign, lights up anyway. "Things most people don't care to know about, let alone deal with." He shrugs self-effacingly at Dot. "Pays the bills all right, but I can't say it's a career I'd recommend to the faint at heart."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie allows a sliver of surprise to ripple over her countenance. Kate would be surprised, only a little, to meet a wizard, and she is surprised at his brazen admission. So those files weren't a red herring. How very delightful.

"A wizard like Merlin, or a wizard like Crowley, or a wizard like John Dee?" she asks. "I can't help but be curious."

John Constantine has posed:
"That, you'll have to figure out another time," John says with an enigmatic grin. He fishes a few bills from his wallet and lays them on the counter, then reaches for his coat. "I've got to get; work calls and I promised a client I'd attend to it before midnight. I'm just about drunk enough to feel up to the task," he says, and shrugs into the raincoat. The collar flops asymmetrically against his neck. "If I get any drunker I won't be any use, and if I stay much longer I'll likely blow off the job entirely. Drinks are on me," he says, and taps the bills to slide them towards the bartender. "Mayhaps I'll see you around here again soon, yeah? You can read more poetry to me or something," he says, and grins around the cigarette.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
She smiles, looks pleased and a little intrigued. "I hope to," she tells him. Then she offers, "Trade you poem for a spell? Next time, I mean. So you won't forget about me."

John Constantine has posed:
"First lass I've ever met who tried to win my attention with a bleedin' soliloquy," John counters with a wry chuckle. "Trust me Kate, I won't be forgetting you anytime soon." He winks once and raps a knuckle on the hard oak bar. "For luck. Take care luv, I'm sure we'll bump into each other again soon," he promises. With that, John turns to weave through the crowd and take his exit out the bar doors, up the stairs to the city beyond.