Chapter Text
[TAPE CLICKS ON]
[Background hum feeds into the recording. The low static of a vintage tape begins, whirring and spinning. Bags of money slam on a table nearby. Someone exhales off to Baby's side.]
JACK [Close to the mic in Babys left pocket, voice rough, slightly amused.]
"He's still not talkin'? Creepin' me out, Doc. Little mute statue over there with those damn earbuds in, listenin' to..."
[A shuffle of steps closer. The man peering at the iPod in Baby's hand. A considering hum.]
"Cho-pin. Whatever the fuck that is."
PATTY [Sitting at the table, nails file making scratching sounds against long stilettos. Her voice is tinged with mock sweetness.]
"Leave the kid alone, Jacky bear. He's just a sweet lil' baby."
JACK [A whoosh of air as the man flicks his wrist in Patty's direction, telling her off with a deep-set Texas twang.]
"I ain't botherin him! Mind yo' own business, woman."
[There's a subtle insult thrown back, too soft to be picked up by the recorder's speakers. Footsteps retreat from Baby's side, Jack stepping back and tossing himself down on a stool that creaks and wobbles.]
"Doc's boy ain't says a damn word all day. Just find it strange, that's all."
[A chuckle, dry and litted with notes of feminine intruige sounds from the table, laced over shuffling of papers and the stacking of bills.]
PATTY [Head turned, directing the lazy question to the man counting hundreds at the head of the table ].
"So...what's the deal, anyway? Rumors true? That really your boy?"
[A giggled laugh, head turning to compare the two she was staring at.]
"I gotta say, I dont see the resemblance. Mom must be the real charmer."
[A long sigh drifts out of lungs, heavy and long-winded after too much caffeine and not enough sleep. A pause in the snapping of rubber bands.]
DOC [Tired, voice lacking the usual bite it had that morning.]
"Baby's good at his job. That's all that matters."
JACK [Clicking his tongue against his teeth. Muttering.]
"Type of freak listens to classical...?"
[There's a long stretch of quiet, the background noise of paper and nail filing mixing with soft sounds of Bach leaking from headphones. Pianos croon, fading in and out beneath murmured conversation.]
DOC [Voice clearer now, more awake and tinged with exasperation. Perhaps even smugness.]
"Look– kid's like a Mozart with a go-kart. Could drive with Elton John playing or Tchaikovsky for all I fucking care."
[A slight pause. A snort.]
"Classical or not– he gets the job done. Can't say the same for the rest of you."
[The room falls silent, members of that day's crew waiting for their cut. Bags zip. Thunks of something heavy landing on the table. A shuffle of chairs scraping back and feet shifting. Someone coughs, and the tape rewinds slightly, repeating the previous lines.]
"M-m-mozart with a go-kart..."
[Synths and sounds of lyrics chopped together.]
"So– are the– are the rumors true?"
"Kid's...good at his job– like a–"
[A record scratches as it rewinds.]
"The rumors– the rumors–"
"Mozart with a go-kart–"
[It loops twice, fading in between notes of elecontic keyboards and the overheard Bach before stilling into silence. Brief static. It ends with a final soft breath, fingers clicking the plastic button.]
[TAPE CLICKS OFF]