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Rolling on by on Central Park's bisecting road, comes a somewhat worn-in looking little Volvo with a mismatched fender,, puttering along a bit noisily for such a little car… possibly that's got to do with some fresh exhaust tubing sticking slightly out of the trunk, which is tied partly-closed. When it pulls over, a young lady gets out, who may not really seem the type for such a conveyance, but Dizzy's on a little mechanical mission, and has spotted a pretzel stand that should not be resisted after a day's work on dirty old foreign jobs. She greets the vendor like a long-lost friend, almost. "Ay, how'sabout one of those," she grins. It's the little things in life.
Walking around Central Park is…probably a daily event, or at least Ronnie moves with the smooth efficiency of someone that has done this more than a few times. In her hand is a rather large ice cream cone, a couple of napkins there for when it begins to melt down her hand, her attention firmly on it as she wanders down one of the paths, carrying her towards that pretzel stand.
Central Park in the evening, still not dark, and Slade is leaving the Tavern of the Green after a business meeting. Legitimate business, which means he was quite bored and willing to take a walk before calling for a cab.
The summer means the park is fairly busy, but Slade gets out of the way to avoid the crowds. Not a people person the best day, and not in the mood for 'civilians' today. Which is why he stumbles into a unpleasant scene. Five white thugs harassing, and about to start beating a dark-skinned couple. He pauses, and snorts in mild disapproval.
Enough to draw the momentary attention of the thugs. Which allows the black couple to attempt to run for it. They get a three second head start, which is enough for them to almost reach the pretzel stand, and scream for help.
Julie is, of course, just enjoying the first big bite of a big pretzel, Kosher salt and mustard, of course, when she realizes there's people running her way, saying, "Urmflgrmlf!" in an attempt to say something with her mouth a bit full. But waves the couple on towards and past her, rummaging with a free hand for something in a pocket. She hrms. Takes out a yo-yo, and, swallowing, says with some bravada to any pursuers, in a very local accent. "You better not make me drop my pretzel, you guys!" Up and down goes the yo-yo. It's a nice one. Looks machined, in fact.
People screaming for help? Ronnie…well, she does what most overly pink and cheery rich girls do, gets out of the way. She doesn't rush to anyone's aid, although she seems to have forgotten the ice cream as she takes it all in with wide eyes. "Call the police!" Seems like a reasonable decision, right?
People screaming and witnesses. That is not what the thugs wanted. One of them manages to land a kick on the man and a couple of them glare at Ronnie. "Not your business," growls the largest of the pack. But his friends look hesitant, there are plenty cops in Central Park, after all. The screams will draw them here soon.
Slade follows them, unhurried. "Leave," he states, his voice gruff and definitely unfriendly. It is a drill sergeant's voice. The five men turn to him, and he narrows his only eye. The old man is actually a couple inches taller than the largest of them. They step back, grunting and muttering among themselves.
Julie says, "Ay!" The guy who kicks one of the couple gets a good, well-placed bonk upside the head with the yo-yo, "Whassamatta you? That ain't no way to treat people…" A stunning enough blow, but now the yo-yo's going up and down again. "I could get another preztel, stunad, so you better figure out whose your business really is." It's then Dizzy really notices the big guy with the eye patch, taking care of other reproaches. Nods a bit that way."
Worry and fear goes right to indignation when they tell her to mind her business. Ronnie gasps, her eyes widening at them as she straightens up, "You mind YOUR business." She retorts, with all the skill of someone who really is terrible at comebacks. She doesn't actively do anything though, except hug her purse closer, and try to not lose the ice cream.
The pretzel vendor automatically offers Julie another, although he looks a little shaken, "here, miss," he mutters. Perhaps he appreciates the young woman ability with the yo-yo.
The one-eyed white-haired man does take a few seconds to look at Julie and her yo-yo, no longer paying the least attention to the thugs or the limping couple that are trying to leave in the opposite direction. They are not going to talk to the police; it would be of little use in this day and age.
Julie sighs, a bit, as the assaulted couple head off, …the five departing guys, she says none too quietly to, "They oughtta be ashamed of themselves." The yo-yo… well, which was a little uncanny, maybe, snaps back into hand and she gives Slade a little salute. "Hey, these are pretty good pretzels," she winks.
"That was…" Ronnie moves out of her not so very well hidden hiding place when things seem to be settling down, "How did you do that?" She wonders, watching Julie with wide eyes, which then turn towards Slade, "And you! You both are like, super nice to have helped them."
Super nice?
Slade has never been called super nice. Or even regular nice. The one-eyed man blinks slowly, and then pinches the bridge of his nose. "I did nothing of note," he replies, "except tell those idiots to leave."
Pretzels might be great, but he just had dinner. Maybe some other day. "Have a good evening, ladies," he adds, wandering off.
Julie smirks a little to Ronnie. "Do what?" She winks, shows the metal yo-yo. "Been playing with these a long time, this one's lathe-turned," she says. Sticks the thing back in a pocket. She toasts the fellow with a pretzel as he goes, and glances back to the little beat-up car, thinking a moment. "You'd think you could get a snack in peace around here, is all. You OK?" She gives Donnie a looking over, apparently about that question.
"Bye!" Ronnie calls after Slade, then she moves over to peer closer at the yo-yo, her brows furrowing, "Lathe what?" She wonders, not understanding the term, and it shows. Then she smiles brightly, shaking her head, "Oh, I'm fine, really, thank you."
Julie ahs. "Oh, ah, that's just how it's made. Balanced all nice." She hrms, after the couple heading off, "Gotta wonder what's in the water, people acting all like that right in the park. Could be some kind of Klan convention in town or something." She hrms, "Guess I ought to at least offer these folks a ride, this ain't right."
"That would be very nice of you." Ronnie replies, her smile brightening a little before she straightens, the icecream forgotten for the moment as she offers her other hand, "Veronica West…but my friends just call me Ronnie."
Julie smiles. "Dizzy," she introduces. Takes the hand. Which is fortunately cleaner than the rest of her may appear: whatever she was doing while getting a bit of grime smeared on her forehead must have involved wearing gloves.
Ronnie shakes the hand, the motion very businesslike, probably something learned from her father. "It is nice to meet you, Dizzy." She glances after the retreating couple, "You should go, if you're going to give them a ride, yeah?"
Julie nods, there, "Yeah, guess so." She glances back on ahead: the limping couple can't have gotten too far, after all, but that's why. "Maybe I'll see you around," she says, which doesn't seem too terribly likely, of course. "Arrivederci, and all," she winks, heading back to the little car.