[ Eames doesn't do New York often. The area surrounding the United Nations is a blast zone for a former special services lieutenant of the british royal armed forced. For all the faces he has in dreams, in the real world he has but one, and he measures his risks carefully. Crime is a betting man's game, and he doesn't bet on a lame horse when he knows it's lame, no matter the hype.
Manhattan is a lame horse indeed, but Brooklyn is a gambler's prize; too close to the lame horse be a sure win, but enough in it's corner to make it worth the chance.
He doesn't keep works he's stolen and replaced from the United States on the walls of any of his US residences. The Caravaggio is from Rome, the Tissot from Rouen, and the Turner watercolor above the piano was won legitimately at auction, in York. The Pollock he stole and replaced was somewhere else entirely, and he hasn't seen it in years. He takes long breaths elsewhere before he ever returns to the scene of a crime.
He hears the piano before he even sticks his key in the door, and debates leaving right then. Catching a flight to Mumbai, not returning again to New York for another two years, until whatever trail ran dry. No cop would be stupid enough to sit down and play his piano though, nor a fed, nor someone who wanted him dead. He weighs his option, taking the safety off of his previously concealed weapon, and heads on in.
Quietly. Maybe his guest won't have heard the door, maybe he will have. He locks it behind him.
Eames recognizes the man at his piano when he sees him, gun still aimed and at the ready, and almost, almost chuckles.]
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Manhattan is a lame horse indeed, but Brooklyn is a gambler's prize; too close to the lame horse be a sure win, but enough in it's corner to make it worth the chance.
He doesn't keep works he's stolen and replaced from the United States on the walls of any of his US residences. The Caravaggio is from Rome, the Tissot from Rouen, and the Turner watercolor above the piano was won legitimately at auction, in York. The Pollock he stole and replaced was somewhere else entirely, and he hasn't seen it in years. He takes long breaths elsewhere before he ever returns to the scene of a crime.
He hears the piano before he even sticks his key in the door, and debates leaving right then. Catching a flight to Mumbai, not returning again to New York for another two years, until whatever trail ran dry. No cop would be stupid enough to sit down and play his piano though, nor a fed, nor someone who wanted him dead. He weighs his option, taking the safety off of his previously concealed weapon, and heads on in.
Quietly. Maybe his guest won't have heard the door, maybe he will have. He locks it behind him.
Eames recognizes the man at his piano when he sees him, gun still aimed and at the ready, and almost, almost chuckles.]
Well aren't you far from home.