90s Noir: The City's Dying Breath

[Sho Buraiken]

James wasn't at all phased by John's apparent suspicion; opening the door barely wide enough to see inside was a clear indication that either a)John Dee, Private Investigator wasn't the most inviting person in the world or b)James didn't appear to be a person John Dee, Private Investigator cared to invite inside his trailer. After all, John must've thought James was insane by now; what kind of fucked up motherfucking fuck forgets to put up his sun screen on a sunny day like this? James, who was under the impression that John Dee, Private Investigator, had been scrutinizing his every move, was half expecting the response to his knock to be a shot to the head through the door, was actually fairly relieved that this shady shamus had deigned to open the door for such an irresponsible car owner, even if it was just a crack.

"Why yes, I believe you can. If this is indeed the office-"

And I use that term loosely.

"-of John Dee, Private Investigator, then I would like to request your services for a matter that is as urgent as it is sensitive," explained James, choosing his words very, very carefully. He had, in fact, rehearsed them several times on the driver over here. "I can assure you that you will be paid handsomely for your help, as long as this matter is kept private," added James, believing that mentioning his ability to pay well up front would make Dee more receptive to his request.

"I think I would feel more comfortable discussing this inside... if you're not indisposed at the moment, that is," prodded the hitman politely, albeit with some definite urgency.

~

It was at this point that Deandre received a phone call. The number was in his address book already -- Mingo, one of the higher ranked movers in the Dukes operation. Tasked with overseeing inter-organization relations, a call from Mingo usually meant some heavy work in unfamiliar territory. As soon as Deandre picked up the phone, Mingo said a few curt words.

"Red's. Fifteen minutes. The hostess should be waiting for you. Don't be late, Deandre."

Red's was a greasy spoon Mexican restaurant on a side street off Washington, and a popular hangout for the Hispanic members of the Dukes. A bit of a dive but with cheap, passable food, a lot of Dukes business went down in the Reserved booths near the back of the restaurant. It was rather likely that this job from Mingo would be about the fucked up deal in the alleyway last night, which had been the talk of Washington Avenue all day.

~

When Renshaw returned home later that night, he would find an unheard message on his answering machine.

"Hey, Renshaw, 'ol buddy 'ol pal, my favorite operator! It's Georgie! Georgie the Greek! Listen, buddy, I got some work for you that I need done on the quick. Drop by Sarpino's as soon as you can. But hey, come in the back way, by my office, okay? Can't have your ugly face scarin' away any potential customers, see? Ahuehuehuehuehue - BEEP

Sarpino's - a Greek Pizzeria about three blocks away from Renshaw's apartment owned by Georgie the Greek as a front for money laundering. The pizza was awful, the service was shit, and the place was an absolute dump but because of Georgie's deep pockets as a retired Capo for Don Cartigo, it managed to stay open. That joke about potential customers was a bit funnier with his utter lack of business in mind -- it was doubtful that the place even had a functioning oven. Nonetheless, Georgie always had his fingers in other people's business and often had an excess of lucrative work on his hands, but at first glance he was just an immigrant business owner capitalizing off of the American dream.

[Byrd Man]

James wasn't at all phased by John's apparent suspicion; opening the door barely wide enough to see inside was a clear indication that either a)John Dee, Private Investigator wasn't the most inviting person in the world or b)James didn't appear to be a person John Dee, Private Investigator cared to invite inside his trailer. After all, John must've thought James was insane by now; what kind of fucked up motherfucking fuck forgets to put up his sun screen on a sunny day like this? James, who was under the impression that John Dee, Private Investigator, had been scrutinizing his every move, was half expecting the response to his knock to be a shot to the head through the door, was actually fairly relieved that this shady shamus had deigned to open the door for such an irresponsible car owner, even if it was just a crack.

"Why yes, I believe you can. If this is indeed the office-"

And I use that term loosely.

"-of John Dee, Private Investigator, then I would like to request your services for a matter that is as urgent as it is sensitive," explained James, choosing his words very, very carefully. He had, in fact, rehearsed them several times on the driver over here. "I can assure you that you will be paid handsomely for your help, as long as this matter is kept private," added James, believing that mentioning his ability to pay well up front would make Dee more receptive to his request.

"I think I would feel more comfortable discussing this inside... if you're not indisposed at the moment, that is," prodded the hitman politely, albeit with some definite urgency.

Dee stared at the young man for a long second. So, it was actually someone looking for a job. Dee slipped his .38 into his pants pocket with the hand blocked by the door. He glanced back at his messy living room and then back at the potential client. "Yeah, I'm Dee." Dee stepped back to his coat rack and slipped the .38 back into the shoulder holster, making sure the strap over the butt of the gun was in place. Based on the guy's dress, he was probably some wet-behind-the-ears lawyer or paralegal. If some firm was sending this kid out for work, that could mean he wasn't full of shit when he said he wanted to pay Dee well.

"Come on in," he said. Dee pushed the door opened and stepped back. He turned, watching the man out the corner of his eye. Dee padded into the kitchen and opened the fridge. "Sorry the house is a shithole. The maid ran off with another man about six years ago. If you're thirsty I have beer--" Dee scanned his fridge and stopped when he saw that the only thing inside were three empty beer cans, an expired pack of bologna, and an empty crate of eggs. "Umm, scratch that. I have water if you want."

Dee stood up, closed the fridge, and walked back towards where the black man was standing. Dee hurried over to his recliner and picked up the small pile of newspapers and racing forms that had gathered in the chair's seat. He plopped the papers down on the coffee table beside a few overdue library books, then motioned towards the now empty seat.

"Sit, please. Like I said, I'm John Dee. So, who are you? And what's the job you apparently want to pay me lots of money to do?"

[Vulture]

The door to Sarpino's flew open, accompanied by the jingling of bells and click of heels on the floor. Tobe Dooley strode in, removing his sunglasses and looking around the place with a bored disdain. He waved aside the man who stepped forward to see him, walked slowly but purposefully towards the door leading into the kitchen. "Hey, you can't go back there," one of the workers protested. Tobe shot him a look that allowed no disagreement and continued on in.

Tobe pushed through the swinging doors into the greasy kitchen, wrinkled his nose at the smell. He'd have to polish his boots after this. He looked over the workers, eying him curiously, and picked out the one with the fewest stains on him, presumably the one in charge. "Where's Georgie? I need to speak with him."