Text Overflow: Scarecrow - The screams you're hearin are the wrong kind

[tinstar]

[Continued from here]

They'd set a 10 AM meeting time and while this wasn't Raylan's office, being in New York for reasons he wouldn't tell anyone, he'd managed to talk the local Chief into letting him borrow a conference room with a promise that Art Muller would buy him a high shelf drink next time he was in town. He was sure Art would be fine with it.. After a little cussing and swearing at him. The case he had actually been on was still active, but Raylan was waiting for someone to come in from overseas in a few days.

Set with a couple cups of coffee, Raylan (and his hat) looked over Crane's file as he waited for the man to arrive and be shown up. Crane hadn't been lying about his record; a point in the man's favor, but Raylan wasn't sure about him yet. The morning was going to prove to be interesting, if nothing else.

Comments

[tinstar]

"Whipper snapper," Raylan accused with a grin, not offering his own age in return. Passing forty had been hard and he was still

Stepping into the ice cream shop, Raylan couldn't help a blast of nostalgia at the fluorescent lights and the faded colors of the shop. It was exactly the kind of place where shitty teenagers hung out in the summer and flick lit firecrackers at strays or something.

"They always do have an affinity for demanding room for God. Never made much sense to me, if he's so forgivin', what's the problem?" He shrugged. "How's life been treatin' ya down here, Crane? The Highschool job, I assume you're still living in that damned mansion I saw with Bright when we were here?"

Most people who found themselves in mental hospitals more than once had a tendency to go back. Raylan was curious to see how far away from that breakdown Jon might be.

[hosannas_of_anguish]

"No way." He eyed Raylan, clearly skeptical. He had assumed he was older than the man, but also, despite the brilliance of his mind, he was shit at guessing ages. "Agin' like a fine wine there, Raylan." Yeah, that deserved his name.

Jonathan made his way over to the counter, a few teenagers in line ahead of them as expected. Luckily, he doesn't teach at their school. "Preaching to the choir there. Alas, nothing to be done about it." Raking a hand through his ginger hair before looking back at Raylan again. "I've done better, but I am getting by." He admitted with his own shrug. "The job can be rewardin' at times, but they are mostly all morons." A glare directed at the teens before them as they paid and moved. "Where else would I be? It's my home. I'll die there." Which might be distressing for some, but Jonathan had planned his whole life to die there if he wasn't murdered in New York.

The woman behind the counter eyeing Crane as they walked up. She clearly recognizes him, but says nothing. A smile offered to Raylan instead asking what he would like, ignoring Jonathan for now.