Post by Marcus O'Terra on May 3, 2012 14:44:11 GMT -5
Chapter One: Seven days before meeting Bishop Morse on The Logan
One big carnie town... Marcus groaned internally; wading through the crowds. His travel bag was bundled up tight and his side-piece was strapped and safe under his coat. He had no illusions that his pockets and the hands of the brats running about weren’t a might more intimate then he’d like. All his money was safely inside his bag, which wasn’t going anywhere for a time.
Between the ‘blue belle’ and the ‘pepper piper’. What kinda directions are those? he sighed. He was deep in the show tents and it was hard to see anything but the folks calling out to the crowds to try their shows. There were men wearing hats on hats and people juggling ‘laser’ knives; there was even a woman painted blue with spots like a cow, advertising some kind of show from an Earth-that-was folk tale.
Wait a second. Marcus stopped in his tracks and looked at the woman. She was a fair sight to look at, even painted up like a blueberry with plastic horns and a yarn tail. He looked left and right and saw, indeed a man eating peppers in between bouts of eloquent, but erratic, flute playing. Wow. I’m almost impressed at how direct that was...
He shifted through the crowd, keeping his eye on the blue gal.... for sake of reference. Between the two tents there was a narrow ‘alley’ and Marcus picked up his pace to the meeting. Marcus hoped Samuel Montros wouldn’t be as much of a heel as he’d been when he’d waved Marcus for the job.
“Glad you could join us, Brownie.” Marcus wanted to sigh. The man was sitting on a chair, smoking some kind of cheap looking, foul smelling, cigar-ish stub. Marcus was standing, and more than one of the four men around him had a weapon on them, drawn.
“You picked a fine and successful location. Lots of people. Lots of noise. Hard to get a clear guess of anything.” It was true enough. The six were all occupying a space not fit for five, and Samuel’s girth counted for two. “Hope you won’t play on deafness when it comes to my pay.”
“Five hundred up front...” Samuel laughed, not a happy sort of laugh, the condescending sort. “You’re crazy, Brownie. You’re good but you’re crazy.”
“Fifty for four big flunkies, three hundred for your former associate. Minimal Bloodshed; Maximum Profit.” Marcus was used to missi-NO jobs... jobs like these. Shoot the leaders, let the grunts mop up the rest.
“I don’t see no reason for use not to split this half and half like any other job...” Samuel smiled; his colleagues examined their blades. Tight quarters, no room to draw a gun, or the ax... A switch blade would be a smart purchase in the near future...
“I get my money now, I’m honor-bonded to this job. Half and half I can always go ‘Hey, I killed some of them folks’. I’d be able to bolt out midway, and you’d have an angry man looking at you for payback, and muscle to get it.”
It was true enough. Word on the street was that Montros group had split but skewed like. Montros had kept less of the men, but held most of the cash. His former partner in crime, a Lawrence Bigsby, was a more charismatic sort, and had drawn more of the meat but lost out on the bread; metaphorically speaking.
“Honor and five plat will get you a decent time round here.” Samuel growled. He wasn’t smiling any more.
“It’ll get a might more than that, but not the sorta thing a healthy minded man would pay for. How’s this then. I take that money and ditch, and I’ll have you on my tail, and word on the Cortex ‘O’Terra’s a thieving, yellow-belly’ and I can’t stand for that. I mean thieving; Well we all gotta make our way.” He looked around and all the men around him seemed to be thinking that. “But I’m no coward. I do a job. I get paid. The order don’t matter so long as it’s done. This case though. I’d like to get paid mostly now, at least.”
“Two-Fifty now. Three fifty after you’ve lightened my worries a bit. And if you’re quick a bonus ‘fore you leave.” Samuel smiled tossing a small bag that jingled with the happy sound of platinum. Marcus knew the weight, and stuffed it into his bag before the group got down to the gritty details.
Bigsby had a quartet of trusted associates. Right now, they were moving about Paquin, trying to turn Montros’s contacts over to Bigsby’s side of the fissure. This did not sit well with Montros, as Bigsby was thinking of moving more dangerous things through the web Montros wove with his own shady dealings. Substances that mother’s fear their children play at when they get old enough to hold enough credits for them.
These weren’t covert agents, however, they walked under the sun like any other folk, thinking Montros too yellow to fight out in the open. This was half true. He was too something, too smart. A gang war would would bring the Feds down quick, and hard; or so everyone feared. Paquin was rather ‘Corey’ for a Border world.
Marcus had slides and info on his marks. The rest was up to him. Dealing with the lesser punks would be better... if he tried to move to fast, this would fall apart, and onto him.
One big carnie town... Marcus groaned internally; wading through the crowds. His travel bag was bundled up tight and his side-piece was strapped and safe under his coat. He had no illusions that his pockets and the hands of the brats running about weren’t a might more intimate then he’d like. All his money was safely inside his bag, which wasn’t going anywhere for a time.
Between the ‘blue belle’ and the ‘pepper piper’. What kinda directions are those? he sighed. He was deep in the show tents and it was hard to see anything but the folks calling out to the crowds to try their shows. There were men wearing hats on hats and people juggling ‘laser’ knives; there was even a woman painted blue with spots like a cow, advertising some kind of show from an Earth-that-was folk tale.
Wait a second. Marcus stopped in his tracks and looked at the woman. She was a fair sight to look at, even painted up like a blueberry with plastic horns and a yarn tail. He looked left and right and saw, indeed a man eating peppers in between bouts of eloquent, but erratic, flute playing. Wow. I’m almost impressed at how direct that was...
He shifted through the crowd, keeping his eye on the blue gal.... for sake of reference. Between the two tents there was a narrow ‘alley’ and Marcus picked up his pace to the meeting. Marcus hoped Samuel Montros wouldn’t be as much of a heel as he’d been when he’d waved Marcus for the job.
“Glad you could join us, Brownie.” Marcus wanted to sigh. The man was sitting on a chair, smoking some kind of cheap looking, foul smelling, cigar-ish stub. Marcus was standing, and more than one of the four men around him had a weapon on them, drawn.
“You picked a fine and successful location. Lots of people. Lots of noise. Hard to get a clear guess of anything.” It was true enough. The six were all occupying a space not fit for five, and Samuel’s girth counted for two. “Hope you won’t play on deafness when it comes to my pay.”
“Five hundred up front...” Samuel laughed, not a happy sort of laugh, the condescending sort. “You’re crazy, Brownie. You’re good but you’re crazy.”
“Fifty for four big flunkies, three hundred for your former associate. Minimal Bloodshed; Maximum Profit.” Marcus was used to missi-NO jobs... jobs like these. Shoot the leaders, let the grunts mop up the rest.
“I don’t see no reason for use not to split this half and half like any other job...” Samuel smiled; his colleagues examined their blades. Tight quarters, no room to draw a gun, or the ax... A switch blade would be a smart purchase in the near future...
“I get my money now, I’m honor-bonded to this job. Half and half I can always go ‘Hey, I killed some of them folks’. I’d be able to bolt out midway, and you’d have an angry man looking at you for payback, and muscle to get it.”
It was true enough. Word on the street was that Montros group had split but skewed like. Montros had kept less of the men, but held most of the cash. His former partner in crime, a Lawrence Bigsby, was a more charismatic sort, and had drawn more of the meat but lost out on the bread; metaphorically speaking.
“Honor and five plat will get you a decent time round here.” Samuel growled. He wasn’t smiling any more.
“It’ll get a might more than that, but not the sorta thing a healthy minded man would pay for. How’s this then. I take that money and ditch, and I’ll have you on my tail, and word on the Cortex ‘O’Terra’s a thieving, yellow-belly’ and I can’t stand for that. I mean thieving; Well we all gotta make our way.” He looked around and all the men around him seemed to be thinking that. “But I’m no coward. I do a job. I get paid. The order don’t matter so long as it’s done. This case though. I’d like to get paid mostly now, at least.”
“Two-Fifty now. Three fifty after you’ve lightened my worries a bit. And if you’re quick a bonus ‘fore you leave.” Samuel smiled tossing a small bag that jingled with the happy sound of platinum. Marcus knew the weight, and stuffed it into his bag before the group got down to the gritty details.
Bigsby had a quartet of trusted associates. Right now, they were moving about Paquin, trying to turn Montros’s contacts over to Bigsby’s side of the fissure. This did not sit well with Montros, as Bigsby was thinking of moving more dangerous things through the web Montros wove with his own shady dealings. Substances that mother’s fear their children play at when they get old enough to hold enough credits for them.
These weren’t covert agents, however, they walked under the sun like any other folk, thinking Montros too yellow to fight out in the open. This was half true. He was too something, too smart. A gang war would would bring the Feds down quick, and hard; or so everyone feared. Paquin was rather ‘Corey’ for a Border world.
Marcus had slides and info on his marks. The rest was up to him. Dealing with the lesser punks would be better... if he tried to move to fast, this would fall apart, and onto him.