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"They want to break into the Louvre," Copley says deadpan, his eyes darting over the patrons of the cafe before returning to rest on Booker. Booker raises his eyebrows over the frames of his chopard de rigos, taking a pull from his iced coffee. Venti, two pumps of caramel and one vanilla, eight shots of espresso. It's too early in the morning for a proper drink, and even Booker has standards. Not many, but he has some.
Copley is nursing a decaf mocha, and is of the firm opinion that Booker might as well be doing a line of cocaine for everyone to see.
"They have some things in there." Booker tells him, probing the bottom of his cup with his environmental-friendly straw. He's just hit a vein of caramel.
"It's an art museum."
Ah. Copley thinks the team is after weapons or something of the sort. The Frenchman sucks thoughtfully on his straw, wondering just how to go about telling Copley that that's not the case, and the team is more than likely going after what can only be tastefully described nowadays as nudes.
"Some of the artwork there belongs to them." That's ambiguous, tasteful, not giving too much away. Better to go slow at first. Copley huffs, taking a sip of the mocha that Booker knows is doing absolutely nothing for him. He's getting twitchy, more worked up as he considers the implications of it all.
"They can't just...walk into the Louvre and take the art!"
Counterpoint; they can. And have before. He doesn't mention that, because it might scare Copley off, and he needs him to stick around long to enough to give him the date for the team's heist. Call him a coward, but he is getting the fuck out of dodge if the team does in fact come to Paris, he doesn't have the fortitude for accidental run-ins that certainly won't be accidents at all.
"They've been trying to retrieve that art for years. Your help can be a great advantage to them," he says instead, and kicks himself the next moment for how professional he sounds. What the fuck, Le Livre? He's supposed to be slumming it out in Paris for the upwards of the next century, and he doesn't plan to be in any way competent during the duration.
The look that Copley gives Booker tells him that he clearly sees through some of his bullshit, which is just rude. Booker was actually putting some unconscious effort into it.
"It would cause a massive uproar if art went missing just like that." Copley says testily. Booker hums, nonplussed.
"They aren't going in there to take the Mona Lisa, James, Jesus." Really, from the way Copley is acting, one would think the team had announced their intentions to have Nicky snipe the Pope, instead of nicking a few sketches.
"Then what exactly is so important to them in there?" Copley growls, unfazed by Booker's use of his Christian name and simultaneously glaring at him like all this is somehow his fault. Which, given Booker's track record, it may very well be.
Booker slouches back and tugs his glasses down the bridge of his nose, making eye contact with the silently fuming ex-CIA agent. Alright. Moment of truth then. "Sometime back in- " shit, he doesn't quite remember, but eighteen-something sounds about right, "-1812, Joe lost a cache of very precious, very detailed drawings of Nicky, that got picked up by some snooping curator or the other. Now he wants them back."
The drawings in question are supposed to go on display next week at some high-end, homoerotic themed art display, with some idiotic title such as Male Eroticism Throughout the Ages, and Booker can still fondly remember the exact pitch of Joe's horrified yell when Booker had brought this to his attention.
He watches Copley's eyes as understanding sets in, and he's not disappointed. "For fuck's sake," Copley explodes, scrubbing a hand through his short hair in a picturesque gesture of exasperation, "Are you telling me they're going to break into one of the world's most famous art museums to get some nudes?"
Yes, that's exactly what Booker is telling him. He's glad he's taking it so well. "Your job," he says, tilting his cup to point at Copley with the straw, "should you choose to accept it, is to keep the publicity to a minimum. And don't worry about them. The team knows what they are doing."
"Ohfuckyou," Copley garbles through a fortifying gulp of his mocha, though what he's trying to fortify without any caffeine is a mystery to Booker.
"Maybe later," Booker says automatically, then blinks as Copley chokes on his mouthful of mocha. Awkward. To make it even more awkward, Booker winks at him, just to see him become flustered. Booker has found out that Copley is an easy person to tease, partly because of how seriously Copley tends to take things.
"I should get going." Copley says, collecting his dignity and getting up with that sad little mocha of his. "They're all going to be here on the twenty-fifth." he adds. Right then. Booker will start packing. Copley gives him a firm clap on the shoulder and moves off, and Booker waits until he is half-way to the door to call, "See you later, babe," across the cafe at him. Copley gives him a withering glare and stomps out, leaving Booker cackling behind him.
Booker finishes his coffee in the cafe, musing over the sickly sweet dregs. Some days are fucking awful, some days are just him and a bottle and nothing else. But days like these - when Copley will pester him out of his apartment and into a pretentious little restaurant, order overpriced coffee and complain about the team while Booker soaks it all up as eagerly as a middle-aged suburban housewife getting the scoop on her new neighbors - are the good days.