Metropolis: The Old City

 Located on the mainland borough of Queensland Park, The Old City was the
 location of the first settlement in Metropolis. Originally known as DeVries
 Village in 1634 and later, under British occupation Elizabethtown, the area
 became known as the Old City following the American Revolution. Though no
 longer the center of Metropolitian life, the Old City has been designated as
 a national historic site. It is a major tourist attraction for its many
 accurate re-creations of the Colonial lifestyle including its most famous
 attraction, the old abandoned waterfront, which has in recent years been
 rebuilt as North Street Seaport. The Seaport serves as the site for the
 annual Metropolis Fourth of July celebration. One entire block of this
area has been cordoned off by Metropolis's Special Crimes Unit. Tarps
cover a senic overlook, and, most notably, a trio of buildings missing
their east and west walls in places. The B ed and Breakfast looks as
though a wrecking ball has been taken to it. 

Contents:
Eli
Obvious exits:
Bed and Breakfast <BB>  Central Business District <N>  Teaboro <NE>  North Bridge <W>  Subway <SUB>

Harold(#1120Pces)

This is a man in his late forties or early fifties, as can be seen in the
faint lines on his face and the grey that extends upwards from his
temples, but little other indication elsewhere. He is fit and
athletic-looking, and his suit is a well-tailored se date dark blue with a
black silk tie. Rimless glasses with gold frames rest on his nose, and his
eyes are a clear and mild green. His voice is equally mild and clear,
rolling and infinitely expressive and rich. When he speaks, his hands
emphasize and arti culate his meaning clearly, and his whole manner,
casual and nonchalant, does little to disguise the charisma that seems to
draw attention to him. 

Harold sits next to the City Court of Metropolis building, under the
upraised torch of Columbia, as arranged. He's apparently reading a copy of
the Daily Planet. The Court steps stretch away behind him, in a long
right-sweeping arc that draws attention away from his chosen cast-iron
park bench, empty now as the sun goes down in a dazzling display of colors
against the jeweled Metropolis skyline. 

Eli
        You see a caucasian man in his thirties or so. He's not especially
tall, and might even be called a little on the short side. The
blonde-reddish hair on his head is clipped short and neat, its style
economical and not very suave. His brown eyes ar e positioned behind a
pair of black government issue eyeglasses...the hornrimmed kind. Somewhat
hardworn, his appearance is a mixture of boyish good looks and weariness. 
        He's clad in a dull sort of grey salt and pepper suit, with no
vest, and a blandly appropiate off-white dress shirt under it. A squarish,
black, almost completely flat tie is worn over his shirt. It doesn't seem
to move much, and must be pretty ti ght around the collar. His shoes are
two-tone black and white, and pretty decently polished. You note a steel
wristband above his left hand, with an electronic LCD display on the
square watch face. 

People mill about on the sidewalk, heading home, going out to dinner. Some
halt to wander up the marble steps to the courthouse proper, most of them
with bleagured and unsmiling faces. One of the unsmiling faces meets
another by a trash basket. The face behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses
gives a cast iron grimace to the other man, and nods. The other man fades,
like he's been trained to, and the man with the glasses approaches
Harold's bench. He folds a copy of 'Now' magazine in one hand, and drops
his coat onto the bench seat.

Harold looks over his glasses, and over the paper. "Mr. Carrin*rustle*."
he says as he rattles the paper slightly, folding it casually. "How are
you this evening?" 

Eli sits down now, crossing one leg over the other. He folds his hands
over his lap, and crooks an elbow back, his manner observant. He studies
you for a few seconds. "I'm fine, Mr. Dayton. Just fine. I trust you're
well?" 

Harold smiles crookedly at nothing in particular. "That's a good
question." he says. "You got my memorandum about my
client's...capitulation." 

Eli takes out his inevitable pack of cigarettes from a breast pocket. 
"Yeah, yeah I did. Or we did, I should say." He taps out a slender cancer
stick, and props it between his lips. He doesn't bother lighting it. 
"...you must feel a little...disappointed? " He seems to not be sure of
this judgement call. 

Harold sighs a little. "I can't blame her." he murmurs. "It was her idea
to begin with. But it's bad precedent, sir...very bad precedent, and the
League could easily get in over it's head. Not to mention the very real
unanswered questions of lower-case justice." he says slightly ruefully. 

Eli points with the hand thats still holding the foil wrapped pack. "Yeah,
you're right about that. Of course..." he pauses to stuff the pack back in
another pocket. "...there's also the fact that the evidence against her is
swamped in this mess of an investigation. Its all a little too damned
murky, if you ask me. But, then again, I'm not a lawyer." He beams around
his cig. 

Harold chuckles drily. "Murky doesn't begin to describe it. I'm in the
dark, -almost- completely. Everyone is." This last he ventures with a
little glance to the side, watching Eli's expression carefully. 

Eli takes the cigarettes out of his mouth, and does a quick DeNiro-esque
glance off over one shoulder, his mouth getting small and tight. He shoves
his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and motions to you with the cig.
"Yeah; almost." He gives a rather forced smile.

Harold tilts his head slightly. The setting sun glints strangely off his
glasses for a moment, making him look like an eyeless and mechanical
angel, only for a moment. "I have someone shaking up the NYPD, and a few
people poking aruond at what falls out."  he ventures. "It's not so easy
to get people like that off the case with just a memo, all they need is
the very faint scent of blood, and. Well, I don't have to tell -you-." 

Eli gives a brief sort of pull of his lips. "...Would Lois Lane happen to
be one of these 'pokers', Mr. Dayton?" 

Harold chuckles. "Don't you think she's enough?" he murmurs.

Eli gives a short snort. "Well..." he says, rubbing the back of an ear.
"Whenever her name pops up, a lot of my cohorts get all fidgety. She's
good at this sort of thing, Dayton; but if you want my plain opinion,
she's in over her head. In a way she may not even be prepared for."

Harold nods slightly. "But surely with all those police officers around,
she'll be safe." he says drily. "Sorry." he says immediately. "Couldn't
resist. She's probably in over her head, yes. Are you?" He leans towards
Eli a fraction of a degree. "Should you be?"

Eli frowns a little, not so much at Harold's question, but at the question
that pops into his own head. "Me? I'm not having a ball, no. No carbombs
or poison gas pens, yet. But from what I've learned, I'm smart enough to
realize this isn't just your standard good old American backyard public
figure attack..." He pauses, and slips the unlit cig back between his
lips. "I could go on, but then I'd have to be veiled and enigmatic. And I
know you hate that." 

Harold chuckles. "Yes, though I do the same thing from time to time." he
confesses. "I -do- have something I want to tell you, but I'll need your
assurance that you will let me know what comes of it, if you look into it. 
Of course, it fell out from Lane's shaking the NYPD tree, so maybe you
think it's tainted." he half-amusedly chides. 

Eli makes a 'go ahead' gesture with a rolling motion of one hand. "I'll be
happy to play tidbits, Dayton; Media-stink or no." 

Harold chuckles. "Okay. My fellows don't have enough contacts to give me
specifics, but every time Ms. Lane makes a phone call, the medical
examiner's office in New York transfers about fifty people from one end of
the state to the other, two or three people get fired and rehired, and in
general, everyone panics. I don't know why, but I imagine it has something
to do with the victim." 

Eli nods. "The icebox shuffle." he murmurs, as if speaking in terms of an
old childhood prank. His brow furrows a little. "...this'll probably mean
a lot of paper work. Assuming the trail isn't buried by now." He sticks a
hand in a pocket, chewing on his cigarette. "I can't wait to meet the
G-Men and police officials who'll be waiting down there for me..." He
smiles humorlessly. "They are so cute when they fly the flag of
'departmental matters'." 

Harold smiles blandly at Eli. "You aren't -that- shy about your badge, are
you?" he says. "Anyway, it's something to check out when there aren't any
good ballgames on." 

Eli nods stiffly. "I hear the Knights are looking good this year." He
pauses a beat. "The new prison work release program down there is just
doing wonders for Gotham's sport scene." 

Harold chuckles. If he caught it, he's pretending, very well, that he
isn't. "I'm a Dodgers fan, myself, now that the Senators are kaput." He
smiles at Eli. 

Eli hmms. "Where're you from, Dayton?"

You say "Kansas City.  You?"

Eli says "New York. Been a while, though."

Harold nods slightly. "Yeah. Well, it's been a while for me, too. My
home's here now: my kids come back here every winter break just like I
used to go back there until my folks died. But you can't give up a team
just for that." he says with a smile. 

Eli scratches the bridge of his nose lightly. "Yeah, I suppose not. I've
been through a couple of 'teams' myself." He studies the courthouse. "You
know, something about this city is just plain abnormal. I mean...is it
always this clean?" 

Harold chuckles. "It's only the surface." he says gently. "People live
here, too, you know. Just not on the courthouse steps at night." He rises.
"I don't guess you need a ride." He puts the newspaper in a litter bin. 

Eli waves a hand. "No, no I don't." Naturally, a black sedan arrives
almost simultaneously. "I'll let you know what your tip leads to, Dayton.
My bosses might edit it down to a bare volume, but you'll get the good
stuff." 

Harold nods. "Sure." he says. "Names." he says as Eli's door opens.
"Everything else is gravy." 

Eli stands, and picks up his coat. "In the meantime; tell Miss Lane to
stay alert...you do the same; might want to pass the word on to Miss Lance
for that matter." 

Harold nods slightly. "I will." he says. "I think Miss Lance is always
alert. If she weren't, this problem wouldn't exist. Would it?" 

Eli slides into the back of the sedan, a vague sort of smile on his face.
"I'll let you sweat that question out until next time." He motions to the
driver, and closes the door. 

Harold puts his hands in his pockets and strolls along the streets in the
gathering gloom. If he's thinking about that question, he clearly doesn't
have a good answer. Above him the streetlights buzz and flicker on, the
sedan slipping away with the shadows.