Del was awoken from his sleep rather rudely by a calloused hand nudging his shoulder. He was up faster than the kid could react, and in a flash of dirty steel his knife was at the thin, tender flesh of the intruder's neck. The Cajun's eyes were narrowed dangerously, but it took him a moment for them to focus enough to get a good look at the man that had woken him up. It was definitely just a kid, probably just about 17, dressed in a dirty blue pinstripe suit and fedora, like those gangers in New Reno used to wear back before the Chosen One had set things straight there. The kid was looking just about ready to piss himself as Del held the knife steadily against his throat, drawing just the faintest little drop of blood.

"Where de'hell you come from, boy?" He growled in a sleepy, but still very intimidating tone. At least he thought it sounded intimidating. The kid straightened up a bit as he remembered why he was there, but it still took him a few seconds to get enough courage together to speak up.

"Mr..Mr. House wants to speak with you Mr. Dela....Dela...Delacro...Delacra..." He had no freaking clue had to speak a proper French name. Del sighed and pulled the knife back, setting it aside on a half-broken dresser.

"Delacroix. Ya pronounce it Delacroix." He made sure to spell out every syllable. He didn't want to have to go over it again. Then the kid's words registered. "Wait, House? De'hell's House wan' wit' me?" House had never offered him any work when he'd passed through the Mojave last time. He'd always let his Securitrons handle his work. That meant this kid had to be an Omerta or a Chairman. He was hoping it was the later. Even if the Omertas were under new management, some redemption case named Cachino or something, he still wouldn't trust them with a can of pork and beans.

"He..didn't say. I think it's about a job. Bunch of fancy-pants types showed up and started talking about...hell I don't know." The kid said, doing his best to keep his composure after the knife, touching the tiny knick on his neck gingerly.

"Don' be a fuckin' pussy. It's jus' a lil' scratch." Del growled again, grumbling and reaching for his shirt. It looked like he was going to be getting up a little earlier than he'd expected today. The kid just nodded again.

"He wants to you meet up with the clients or whoever the shit they are on The Strip. Supposed to be huge." Del nodded, still grumbling in a mix of a English and the increasingly rare Cajun French as he tugged on his boots.

"Right, den. Ya tell 'em I'm gon' be there soon as I can. Ain' gon' be long. Need t'take care'a some bui'ness'a mine here real quick." The kid nodded more vigorously this time, looking as if he were just waiting for any excuse to leave. He probably figured that he was going to get shanked if he stayed too long in Westside. Not all that crazy a thought. Del just waved him off absently, reaching over to a half-empty bottle of beer and taking a long drink before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Righ' den...talk wit' Stella...den go an' see wha' House got fo' me." Forty minutes later, he was off towards the Lucky 38. Whatever it was, it had to be tricky if House needed help...