“Be surprised what a white woman do when you tell her she gotta do somethin she don’t want.”
Dang it, I knew I should have named her Karen.
Polyphemus Member
They/ Them
- Last Seen: 2 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Vulture
- Joined: 10 yrs ago
- Posts: 1829 (0.50 / day)
- VMs: 0
-
Username history
- Polyphemus 10 yrs ago
-
Latest 10 profile visitors:
-
Most recent →
Tim the Yeti,
Nightbringer,
Punished GN
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
Dang it, I knew I should have named her Karen.
Sounds good, let me know when completed.
And our first post is up! Really looking forward to sharing this experience with all of you. Below, a few notes that you will see from time to time when I post.
OPTIONAL PLOT HOOK: These are optional plot hooks, you are free to engage or ignore them altogether to pursue your own agenda. How you handle them may affect future events or plot hooks.
Just Enough to Wet My Beak: A representative from the Chicago Outfit is making his monthly collection. He is informing you that he expects double next month.
SONGS: Just for fun and to create atmosphere, I'll be including popular songs from the time period with YouTube links in the post.
Brandy by Looking Glass
Back Stabbers by The O'Jays
OPTIONAL PLOT HOOK: These are optional plot hooks, you are free to engage or ignore them altogether to pursue your own agenda. How you handle them may affect future events or plot hooks.
Just Enough to Wet My Beak: A representative from the Chicago Outfit is making his monthly collection. He is informing you that he expects double next month.
SONGS: Just for fun and to create atmosphere, I'll be including popular songs from the time period with YouTube links in the post.
Brandy by Looking Glass
Back Stabbers by The O'Jays
It was not even ten in the morning but the day was already hot.
As usual for August, the heat had seemed to start in the humid miasma of the swamps at the northern end of O'Connor County, radiating outwards and triumphing in an all too brief struggle against the cool breeze blowing off the Gulf. And now it had settled over it all, pressing down like a thick, soaking blanket. All over the county, men were already opening shirt collars, stains forming at the necks and armpits. Children were hastily scarfing down the rapidly melting candy bars they had planned to save for later. Glasses of lemonade and iced tea and Dr. Pepper were being poured, for those who didn't seek another form of liquid relief.
The heat was especially oppressive on the back loading dock of Hawkins Spirits, the concrete walls trapping it in but admitting no shade. The back door was shut, a refusal to let any of the air conditioned air inside the liquor store escape. Mrs. Amelia Hawkins didn't mind. The heat was nothing to her after living in a tarpaper shack with fourteen other people or working ten hour shifts in a factory churning out Sherman tanks. Her white blouse and dark slacks remained crisp and dry. The same couldn't be said of Jody's stained chinos and white James Dean T-shirt. The young man was sweating, his slicked-back hair beginning to be plastered down against his scalp.
She preferred it that way. She liked to do negotiations with heat, both literal and metaphorical.
“I'll give you 20 cents on the dollar for them.”
“No, Mrs. Hawkins. I don't mean no disrespect but that just ain't gonna cut it,” Jody said with a vigorous shake of the head. He reached down to the cardboad box at his feet, pulled out a brightly labeled bottle. The brown liquid within sloshed gently. “See, unopened and untouched. Some guys will try to cheat you and water this stuff down, sell you bottles of tea or water with brown sugar. I don't play you that way. You check the other nineteen case I got in my truck and you'll see they're all sealed shut, straight from the distillery.”
Mrs. Hawkins flicked an errant blond lock out of her face. “Well, Jody, I'd pay you top dollar if you had brought me some Old Crow or Jim Beam or IW Harper. You know, the more popular bourbons. But Old Charter? I can't do anything with Old Charter. Nobody round here comes in asking for it. And you showed up with twenty cases! I'm lucky if I sell five bottles of Old Charter a week and you're expecting me to take 240 off you.”
Jody's face twisted up with momentary anger before he remembered just who he was speaking with and he forced a look of calm indignation to take its place. “Look, me and the boys boosted this shipment up in Frankfort. Now, we could've gone to Memphis or Louisville to try and offload but we wanted to be respectful, you having gotten us our start and all. Hell, we nearly got busted by state troopers passing through Tennessee. And now you're telling us you'll only pay 20 cents? That ain't no way to do us. Nah, we want 50.”
“Alright, in light of the trouble you boys had and the distance you came, I'll give you 30 and that's cutting my own throat,” she countered. She easily recognized the young thief's last-ditch effort to play hardball- the kid was sweating and just wanted to get out of the sun already. Almost too easy.
“I'll take 30,” Jody said, letting a little too much relief into his voice. Perfect. Right where she wanted him.
They shook, and Mrs. Hawkins took out her billfold and began counting out twenties for Jody. “Unload them here onto the dock, then drive away. Pleasure as always, Jody,” she said as she slipped the stack of bills into his hand. Without even a goodbye, she spun on her heel and walked back inside, even as Jody enthusiastically signaled to his partners to begin unloading.
The air conditioning and radio made a welcome change to the sweltering heat outside. Such luxuries were almost unheard of for any shop in O'Connor County. It gave her a brief swell of pride as she waved over one of her stockboys, a lanky tow-headed kid.
“Ronnie, right?” The youth nodded, eager to please. “There's twenty cases of bourbon out back, but before we stock it I want a few cases delivered.” She grabbed a legal pad from behind the counter, began to scratch down a few names and addresses. “First one is going to Judge Sinclair. If people see him pouring Old Charter at one of his little Saturday cocktail parties, they're gonna start thinking it's fancy and they need to get a bottle themselves. Then a case each for a few friends of mine- Sheriff Dawkins, Pastor MacMillan over at the Baptist church, and one for Black Jack Rawlins up in Buck Nelly. Come on, they know you're with me, they won't bite,” she said as she saw the apprehensive look on the kid's face when he was asked to travel to Buck Nelly. “Just want to let community leaders to know I'm thinking about them.” She handed the sheet to the stockboy, watched him eagerly run out to bring his pickup around the back to load up. The other sixteen cases of Old Charter could stay out there. No one would dare steal from her.
And besides, she would need Ronnie out of the shop for a few hours. It would be better to have no witnesses.
It was collection day.
As the stockboy roared off excitedly down the road, a trail of dust behind him, she made doubly sure the “Closed” sign was up and door locked. Walking into the small office, she opened the safe. A stranger would be surprised by the safe itself- specially made by Chubb in Great Britain, thick and fireproof, the kind favored by banks and millionaires. She retrieved a thick brown envelope and a single key from inside the safe.
That same stranger would doubtlessly be even more surprised when Mrs. Hawkins moved aside a crowded bookcase to reveal a hidden door, which she unlocked and opened. Only she and Harold knew about this storeroom, what they called “Eden” because of the forbidden fruit inside. Without a moment's hesitation, she selected two items, a bottle and a Mason jar. The door was promptly shut and locked, the bookcase moved to conceal it once again, and the key deposited back in the safe with the cash and documents and more than one pistol.
She placed the envelope, the bottle, and the jar in a neat row on the sales counter, then sat down to wait, leafing through a magazine. The DJ on the radio chattered away, the air conditioner hummed.
Mrs. Hawkins didn't have long to wait. A quiet but commanding tap came on the glass door. A man was outside, in a light but well-cut tailored suit. She got immediately to let him in- any hesitation might be seen as disrespect. She undid the lock, quickly ushered him in, shut and locked the door once more. “It's good to see you again. I hope you had a pleasant flight down,” she said deferentially.
The man from Chicago sighed. “Oh, it's always some bullshit, let me tell you. They're worried about hijacking to Cuba so couldn't even bring a pocketknife along with me. Had to keep it in my suitcase.” He looked around the shop, his eyes carelessly flicking around and taking it all in. “Business been good? You get set up with those boys from Fort Worth we told you about?”
“Yes, thank you for that. The Coors they bring me goes for $15 a case here. Must be the novelty.”
“Shall we get down to it?” the man from Chicago said, his flat Northern accent stentorian over the radio. It was not a question.
She nodded in agreement and led him over the counter. “As usual, a couple small tokens for you,” she said smoothly. She handed him the Mason jar full of clear liquid. “The best moonshine in O'Connor County. I'm surprised you Northern boys have a taste for it,” she said with just a hint of playfulness, before mentally kicking herself for being too familiar with him.
The man from Chicago didn't seem to notice as he undid the lid and had a cautious sniff, before letting out a mild snort at the harsh odor. “Makes a fun conversation piece, at least. Some of the guys back home have never been further south than Pilsen, like you said it's a novelty for them. Local color. Ah, now here we go, that's the good stuff,” he said as he reached for the bottle with an appreciative smile. “Havana Club rum. Every month when I come back from the South I get people dropping round my place hoping for a glass of this. Hell, even the don sometimes, and he was down there working in Cuba before Castro kicked us out.” For the first time, he smiled genuinely. “How much do you get for this, anyways?”
“$100 a bottle. It's a lot, sure, but given the penalties for breaking the embargo it's worth it.”
“Speaking of which,” the man from Chicago interjected as he picked up the envelope. “Not that I don't enjoy the company, but you're only the first stop today. Got to see your business partners and grab envelopes from all of them.” He opened it and began to leaf through the thick stack of crisp $50 bills fresh from the First County Bank, counting quickly and dexterously. She knew better than to interrupt and stood there silently, until he nodded to himself.
“Everything in order?”
“Quite. We had our doubts, but you rednecks have really built something up the last few years. Which is why next month the tax is going up to 20%.”
Mrs. Hawkins could hardly believe her ears. “Come again?” she asked incredulously.
“You heard me. Next month all these fifties need to be hundreds. Same goes for all your business partners, I'll be telling them today.”
“The tax has always been 10%!”
“That was probationary. We were helping you find your feet. But now that you've proven you can run a capable and profitable enterprise we want a good return on our investment.”
“That's gonna cut into my income badly.”
The man from Chicago shrugged. “So figure out how to make more money. That benefits both of us.”
“You can't do us like this,” she protested in spite of herself, her face flushing with ire.
“Lady, if you keep complaining it's going up to 25%.” He glared, his eyes daring her to meet the challenge. She knew he was serious and kept silent. "That's what I thought. If you don't double this payment next time then Chicago will revoke your franchise rights. To put it another way, someone else is going to take over this territory. You're a smart broad, you'll figure it out. Now if you don't mind I'm headed out. Gotta have this same conversation ten more times today and it gets old quick.” The friendly jingling of bells mounted on the door signaled the man from Chicago's departure, and Mrs. Hawkins was left stewing behind the counter.
Where was she going to get that kind of money?
____________________________________
“Harold, would you be a dear and hand me a beer, please?” Mrs. Hawkins asked pleasantly, turning down the volume on the little transistor radio.
Harold Cokeley, rawboned and wiry, obediently dug into the tin basin filled with ice and pulled out a bottle of Schaefer, the humidity immediately beading on the brown glass even as sunset drew near. “I thought he'd be here by now,” he grumbled as he popped off the cap and passed it to her.
Eyes still on the small charcoal grill they had brought along, Mrs. Hawkins reached up and took it from him without looking. “Patience, hon. Mr. Rookwood is a man of his word,” she promised.
To any passersby, it would seem like an innocent quiet tailgate cookout on the stone jetty by the old Sutton place. The dock had long since ceased to launch any pleasure craft and the last Sutton had moved away during the Depression. The house up the beach was crumbling but the jetty was solid as ever and a popular place to watch the sunset over the Gulf. Indeed, it was far from uncommon to see a pickup pull up to the end of the dock and the passengers to get out with a bucket of cold drinks and a grill, much as they had done. A closer examination would reveal the M3 submachine gun at the ready on the hood of the Chevy truck, though, which was generally a little more unusual for an evening get together.
Harold opened a Royal Crown cola for himself and leaned back against the Chevy, grease gun in easy reach should the need arise. “We're gonna need to sell all that rum and then some. We've got a lot of people working for us, we really can't afford this increase unless we somehow expand our business in the next month.”
“Well, I'm open to suggestions. How do you like your burger, hon?”
“Medium. Maybe we could ask him to bring us some Cuban cigars, too? We could try selling those.”
“It's a thought. Won't throw it out immediately, but that's not quite as profitable. You want cheese on there?”
“No thanks. I see lights, I think that's them.” Harold pointed to the horizon. Highlighted against the pink and orange of the setting sun was an approaching craft.
The twilight deepened as the craft drew nearer, as Mrs. Hawkins worried over the burgers and Harold checked his grease gun- ever paranoid, he was prepared for an ambush by the Coast Guard or rival syndicates or the Tonton Macoute, Mrs. Hawkins couldn't really be certain but she appreciated the effort.
Finally the Chloe was upon them, the thick rubber tires tied to the sides butting up against the old Sutton jetty. Mrs. Hawkins grinned broadly as Harold tied them off at the cleat- she was rather fond of the old sailors. “Fellows! Good to see you both,” she greeted Rookwood and Blackthorne. “After all that time at sea I thought you might like a good old fashioned American hamburger. I'll fix you both a plate, and we've got beer and soft drinks on ice. Help yourselves!”
As the two came onto the jetty, she allowed them a moment to stretch their legs and look over the refreshments before continuing. “Now, some business. Harold and I find we're in a position to expand our business. So, I wanted to know-”
She was about to ask about the possibility of picking up Cuban cigars to go with the rum when something seized her. An impulse born of ambition, of frustration. A desire to reach higher.
Mrs. Hawkins pulled out the news magazine rolled up in her back pocket, flipped through to the photo spread she had spied earlier in the day when waiting for the man from Chicago. Two pages on the weapons being used in Vietnam. Color photographs of the American M16, the L1 used by the Australians, the HK33 wielded by Thai troops. And of course the ubiquitous AK-47 used by the North Vietnamese.
Mrs. Hawkins held out the diagrams of automatic weapons for Rookwood to see. “Do you think you can get us anything like that?”
As usual for August, the heat had seemed to start in the humid miasma of the swamps at the northern end of O'Connor County, radiating outwards and triumphing in an all too brief struggle against the cool breeze blowing off the Gulf. And now it had settled over it all, pressing down like a thick, soaking blanket. All over the county, men were already opening shirt collars, stains forming at the necks and armpits. Children were hastily scarfing down the rapidly melting candy bars they had planned to save for later. Glasses of lemonade and iced tea and Dr. Pepper were being poured, for those who didn't seek another form of liquid relief.
The heat was especially oppressive on the back loading dock of Hawkins Spirits, the concrete walls trapping it in but admitting no shade. The back door was shut, a refusal to let any of the air conditioned air inside the liquor store escape. Mrs. Amelia Hawkins didn't mind. The heat was nothing to her after living in a tarpaper shack with fourteen other people or working ten hour shifts in a factory churning out Sherman tanks. Her white blouse and dark slacks remained crisp and dry. The same couldn't be said of Jody's stained chinos and white James Dean T-shirt. The young man was sweating, his slicked-back hair beginning to be plastered down against his scalp.
She preferred it that way. She liked to do negotiations with heat, both literal and metaphorical.
“I'll give you 20 cents on the dollar for them.”
“No, Mrs. Hawkins. I don't mean no disrespect but that just ain't gonna cut it,” Jody said with a vigorous shake of the head. He reached down to the cardboad box at his feet, pulled out a brightly labeled bottle. The brown liquid within sloshed gently. “See, unopened and untouched. Some guys will try to cheat you and water this stuff down, sell you bottles of tea or water with brown sugar. I don't play you that way. You check the other nineteen case I got in my truck and you'll see they're all sealed shut, straight from the distillery.”
Mrs. Hawkins flicked an errant blond lock out of her face. “Well, Jody, I'd pay you top dollar if you had brought me some Old Crow or Jim Beam or IW Harper. You know, the more popular bourbons. But Old Charter? I can't do anything with Old Charter. Nobody round here comes in asking for it. And you showed up with twenty cases! I'm lucky if I sell five bottles of Old Charter a week and you're expecting me to take 240 off you.”
Jody's face twisted up with momentary anger before he remembered just who he was speaking with and he forced a look of calm indignation to take its place. “Look, me and the boys boosted this shipment up in Frankfort. Now, we could've gone to Memphis or Louisville to try and offload but we wanted to be respectful, you having gotten us our start and all. Hell, we nearly got busted by state troopers passing through Tennessee. And now you're telling us you'll only pay 20 cents? That ain't no way to do us. Nah, we want 50.”
“Alright, in light of the trouble you boys had and the distance you came, I'll give you 30 and that's cutting my own throat,” she countered. She easily recognized the young thief's last-ditch effort to play hardball- the kid was sweating and just wanted to get out of the sun already. Almost too easy.
“I'll take 30,” Jody said, letting a little too much relief into his voice. Perfect. Right where she wanted him.
They shook, and Mrs. Hawkins took out her billfold and began counting out twenties for Jody. “Unload them here onto the dock, then drive away. Pleasure as always, Jody,” she said as she slipped the stack of bills into his hand. Without even a goodbye, she spun on her heel and walked back inside, even as Jody enthusiastically signaled to his partners to begin unloading.
The air conditioning and radio made a welcome change to the sweltering heat outside. Such luxuries were almost unheard of for any shop in O'Connor County. It gave her a brief swell of pride as she waved over one of her stockboys, a lanky tow-headed kid.
“Ronnie, right?” The youth nodded, eager to please. “There's twenty cases of bourbon out back, but before we stock it I want a few cases delivered.” She grabbed a legal pad from behind the counter, began to scratch down a few names and addresses. “First one is going to Judge Sinclair. If people see him pouring Old Charter at one of his little Saturday cocktail parties, they're gonna start thinking it's fancy and they need to get a bottle themselves. Then a case each for a few friends of mine- Sheriff Dawkins, Pastor MacMillan over at the Baptist church, and one for Black Jack Rawlins up in Buck Nelly. Come on, they know you're with me, they won't bite,” she said as she saw the apprehensive look on the kid's face when he was asked to travel to Buck Nelly. “Just want to let community leaders to know I'm thinking about them.” She handed the sheet to the stockboy, watched him eagerly run out to bring his pickup around the back to load up. The other sixteen cases of Old Charter could stay out there. No one would dare steal from her.
And besides, she would need Ronnie out of the shop for a few hours. It would be better to have no witnesses.
It was collection day.
As the stockboy roared off excitedly down the road, a trail of dust behind him, she made doubly sure the “Closed” sign was up and door locked. Walking into the small office, she opened the safe. A stranger would be surprised by the safe itself- specially made by Chubb in Great Britain, thick and fireproof, the kind favored by banks and millionaires. She retrieved a thick brown envelope and a single key from inside the safe.
That same stranger would doubtlessly be even more surprised when Mrs. Hawkins moved aside a crowded bookcase to reveal a hidden door, which she unlocked and opened. Only she and Harold knew about this storeroom, what they called “Eden” because of the forbidden fruit inside. Without a moment's hesitation, she selected two items, a bottle and a Mason jar. The door was promptly shut and locked, the bookcase moved to conceal it once again, and the key deposited back in the safe with the cash and documents and more than one pistol.
She placed the envelope, the bottle, and the jar in a neat row on the sales counter, then sat down to wait, leafing through a magazine. The DJ on the radio chattered away, the air conditioner hummed.
Mrs. Hawkins didn't have long to wait. A quiet but commanding tap came on the glass door. A man was outside, in a light but well-cut tailored suit. She got immediately to let him in- any hesitation might be seen as disrespect. She undid the lock, quickly ushered him in, shut and locked the door once more. “It's good to see you again. I hope you had a pleasant flight down,” she said deferentially.
The man from Chicago sighed. “Oh, it's always some bullshit, let me tell you. They're worried about hijacking to Cuba so couldn't even bring a pocketknife along with me. Had to keep it in my suitcase.” He looked around the shop, his eyes carelessly flicking around and taking it all in. “Business been good? You get set up with those boys from Fort Worth we told you about?”
“Yes, thank you for that. The Coors they bring me goes for $15 a case here. Must be the novelty.”
“Shall we get down to it?” the man from Chicago said, his flat Northern accent stentorian over the radio. It was not a question.
She nodded in agreement and led him over the counter. “As usual, a couple small tokens for you,” she said smoothly. She handed him the Mason jar full of clear liquid. “The best moonshine in O'Connor County. I'm surprised you Northern boys have a taste for it,” she said with just a hint of playfulness, before mentally kicking herself for being too familiar with him.
The man from Chicago didn't seem to notice as he undid the lid and had a cautious sniff, before letting out a mild snort at the harsh odor. “Makes a fun conversation piece, at least. Some of the guys back home have never been further south than Pilsen, like you said it's a novelty for them. Local color. Ah, now here we go, that's the good stuff,” he said as he reached for the bottle with an appreciative smile. “Havana Club rum. Every month when I come back from the South I get people dropping round my place hoping for a glass of this. Hell, even the don sometimes, and he was down there working in Cuba before Castro kicked us out.” For the first time, he smiled genuinely. “How much do you get for this, anyways?”
“$100 a bottle. It's a lot, sure, but given the penalties for breaking the embargo it's worth it.”
“Speaking of which,” the man from Chicago interjected as he picked up the envelope. “Not that I don't enjoy the company, but you're only the first stop today. Got to see your business partners and grab envelopes from all of them.” He opened it and began to leaf through the thick stack of crisp $50 bills fresh from the First County Bank, counting quickly and dexterously. She knew better than to interrupt and stood there silently, until he nodded to himself.
“Everything in order?”
“Quite. We had our doubts, but you rednecks have really built something up the last few years. Which is why next month the tax is going up to 20%.”
Mrs. Hawkins could hardly believe her ears. “Come again?” she asked incredulously.
“You heard me. Next month all these fifties need to be hundreds. Same goes for all your business partners, I'll be telling them today.”
“The tax has always been 10%!”
“That was probationary. We were helping you find your feet. But now that you've proven you can run a capable and profitable enterprise we want a good return on our investment.”
“That's gonna cut into my income badly.”
The man from Chicago shrugged. “So figure out how to make more money. That benefits both of us.”
“You can't do us like this,” she protested in spite of herself, her face flushing with ire.
“Lady, if you keep complaining it's going up to 25%.” He glared, his eyes daring her to meet the challenge. She knew he was serious and kept silent. "That's what I thought. If you don't double this payment next time then Chicago will revoke your franchise rights. To put it another way, someone else is going to take over this territory. You're a smart broad, you'll figure it out. Now if you don't mind I'm headed out. Gotta have this same conversation ten more times today and it gets old quick.” The friendly jingling of bells mounted on the door signaled the man from Chicago's departure, and Mrs. Hawkins was left stewing behind the counter.
Where was she going to get that kind of money?
____________________________________
“Harold, would you be a dear and hand me a beer, please?” Mrs. Hawkins asked pleasantly, turning down the volume on the little transistor radio.
Harold Cokeley, rawboned and wiry, obediently dug into the tin basin filled with ice and pulled out a bottle of Schaefer, the humidity immediately beading on the brown glass even as sunset drew near. “I thought he'd be here by now,” he grumbled as he popped off the cap and passed it to her.
Eyes still on the small charcoal grill they had brought along, Mrs. Hawkins reached up and took it from him without looking. “Patience, hon. Mr. Rookwood is a man of his word,” she promised.
To any passersby, it would seem like an innocent quiet tailgate cookout on the stone jetty by the old Sutton place. The dock had long since ceased to launch any pleasure craft and the last Sutton had moved away during the Depression. The house up the beach was crumbling but the jetty was solid as ever and a popular place to watch the sunset over the Gulf. Indeed, it was far from uncommon to see a pickup pull up to the end of the dock and the passengers to get out with a bucket of cold drinks and a grill, much as they had done. A closer examination would reveal the M3 submachine gun at the ready on the hood of the Chevy truck, though, which was generally a little more unusual for an evening get together.
Harold opened a Royal Crown cola for himself and leaned back against the Chevy, grease gun in easy reach should the need arise. “We're gonna need to sell all that rum and then some. We've got a lot of people working for us, we really can't afford this increase unless we somehow expand our business in the next month.”
“Well, I'm open to suggestions. How do you like your burger, hon?”
“Medium. Maybe we could ask him to bring us some Cuban cigars, too? We could try selling those.”
“It's a thought. Won't throw it out immediately, but that's not quite as profitable. You want cheese on there?”
“No thanks. I see lights, I think that's them.” Harold pointed to the horizon. Highlighted against the pink and orange of the setting sun was an approaching craft.
The twilight deepened as the craft drew nearer, as Mrs. Hawkins worried over the burgers and Harold checked his grease gun- ever paranoid, he was prepared for an ambush by the Coast Guard or rival syndicates or the Tonton Macoute, Mrs. Hawkins couldn't really be certain but she appreciated the effort.
Finally the Chloe was upon them, the thick rubber tires tied to the sides butting up against the old Sutton jetty. Mrs. Hawkins grinned broadly as Harold tied them off at the cleat- she was rather fond of the old sailors. “Fellows! Good to see you both,” she greeted Rookwood and Blackthorne. “After all that time at sea I thought you might like a good old fashioned American hamburger. I'll fix you both a plate, and we've got beer and soft drinks on ice. Help yourselves!”
As the two came onto the jetty, she allowed them a moment to stretch their legs and look over the refreshments before continuing. “Now, some business. Harold and I find we're in a position to expand our business. So, I wanted to know-”
She was about to ask about the possibility of picking up Cuban cigars to go with the rum when something seized her. An impulse born of ambition, of frustration. A desire to reach higher.
Mrs. Hawkins pulled out the news magazine rolled up in her back pocket, flipped through to the photo spread she had spied earlier in the day when waiting for the man from Chicago. Two pages on the weapons being used in Vietnam. Color photographs of the American M16, the L1 used by the Australians, the HK33 wielded by Thai troops. And of course the ubiquitous AK-47 used by the North Vietnamese.
Mrs. Hawkins held out the diagrams of automatic weapons for Rookwood to see. “Do you think you can get us anything like that?”
@Afro Samurai
I love this character and I love the great historical touches you've added in as well, especially with this being the year Nicky Barnes formed The Council. Harlow has so many dramatic possibilities and I am excited to see where you take him. Accepted!
Everyone, just a quick reminder that we can expect the first IC post tomorrow.
I love this character and I love the great historical touches you've added in as well, especially with this being the year Nicky Barnes formed The Council. Harlow has so many dramatic possibilities and I am excited to see where you take him. Accepted!
Everyone, just a quick reminder that we can expect the first IC post tomorrow.
MOD ANNOUNCEMENT
Okay everyone, I am planning to launch the IC on Monday. I know everyone is eager to get going and I want to make sure we keep up this level of enthusiasm.
If you're still working on a character sheet, no need to rush, I'll be happy to review anything after launch.
Okay everyone, I am planning to launch the IC on Monday. I know everyone is eager to get going and I want to make sure we keep up this level of enthusiasm.
If you're still working on a character sheet, no need to rush, I'll be happy to review anything after launch.
@Nightbringer
I like this character, and I'm impressed by the research you've done! The Boss Crump connection especially. This kind of game is all about people abusing the public's trust, and that's a really unique racket too. Accepted.
I like this character, and I'm impressed by the research you've done! The Boss Crump connection especially. This kind of game is all about people abusing the public's trust, and that's a really unique racket too. Accepted.
THE CRIMSON AVENGER
East End Legal Clinic
Gotham City, NJ
4:54 PM
"In hoc signo vinces!" Lee Travis exulted as he held a tablet in front of Jill Carlyle. It lacked the same dramatic effect of slapping a freshly printed newspaper down onto the surface of desk, true, but Lee privately figured that Jill's office had more than enough paper in it at this point, filling boxes and binders and most available surfaces. The environment needed the break. “Grand Jury Impaneled in Ace Chemicals Dumping Case. That's the kind of headline I like to see.”
“And naturally we hear it first in the Globe-Leader,” she said with a smirk.
“What can I say, counselor, I run a quality publication.”
“I understand it's the first choice for people who want to line birdcages,” Jill replied. She gently pushed aside the tablet, focused on the brief she was reading. “Did you come down all this way just to brag about owning a newspaper or did you actually want something?”
“You have a real talent for reducing things ad absurdum, Jill,” he said as he idly flipped through the rest of the issue on his tablet- Had to check the work, after all. “I know you've been working hard on this case. I know you've been putting in a lot of time with depositions from all those laborers who escaped. I just thought you might like to see you were getting some public acknowledgment.”
“It's a start but the real work is coming for the DA and the grand jury. The case is going to rest on a bunch of illegal aliens working through interpreters against a bunch of wealthy types, including a former Hollywood star. It's going to be tied up for months before there's even an arrest.”
“Plenty can happen in that time.”
“Including me getting a decent dinner, I hope.”
“Well, I'm in a celebratory mood. We can breathe easy at least for now, any immediate threat has passed. Things are getting incrementally better, gradibus ascendimus.” He smiled broadly. “How about you close up for the day and we get some dinner? My treat.”
Jill looked up sharply. “You serious?”
“Ipse dixit. Have you ever known me to joke where sushi is involved?”
“I'll need a couple hours-” she said, then suddenly paused when she saw Lee's face go pale. “Lee, are you okay?”
“Yeah- yeah,” he said. “Just think I might have to take a rain check. It seems terrorists have seized Gotham Central Station. Unknown number of hostages, no demands or statements issued just yet.”
“Oh my God,” she said in alarm.
“We'll have to do dinner another time. The Globe-Leader has to be there,” he said, making for the exit.
“Sure, but does its owner?” Jill asked incredulously. “Don't you have staff for that kind of thing?”
“This could be one of the biggest stories in Gotham's history,” he said hurriedly. “I definitely need to be there. Lead from the front, right? Pax tecum, Jill,” Lee said as he rushed out of the office, nearly at a dead run. Jill stared after him, lips pursed, rolling questions in her mind.
Gotham Central Station
Gotham City, NJ
5:20 PM
He had taken to keeping his Crimson Avenger getup in the car, in a hidden compartment inside a door panel he and Wing had installed together. It was something of a miracle he hadn't been in an accident slipping on the shoulder holster, coat, hat, and mask while tearing through the Gotham streets at 70 mph, but he had reached the massive structure in almost no time, pulling into the long term lot and slipping out of the SUV to hide among the many rows of cars. More and more sirens were beginning to draw near, but he had managed to arrive before law enforcement had fully cordoned off the area. Good. He was inside their perimeter.
The Crimson Avenger put very little faith in the Gotham police. All available evidence indicated they were malicious, cruel, or both at once. This would inevitably escalate to a pitched gunfight that would endanger hostages. The Crimson Avenger hoped he would be able to guide some of them out or find them shelter inside the building.
Gotham Central was a sprawling sandstone building of early 1900s vintage, long the focal point of Gotham. The edifice still bore the pockmarked scars of 1930s tommy-gun battles between bootleggers, the scrapes from counter-culture clashes in the 1960s. But today would mark another bloody battle.
The massive structure had many doors and windows, and the Crimson Avenger gambled that the terrorists would not be able to watch every single one- better to herd the hostages in one area and concentrate their forces. With the butt of his pistol he smashed a frosted glass pane on what had once been one of multiple restaurants in the building, long since given to decay and ruin like so much of this city. Reaching inside, he undid the latch and let himself in, dropping gracefully to the floor.
He trained his .45 on the door, bracing himself in case anyone ran in to confront him. A full thirty seconds passed, seemingly at a snail's pace. He finally exhaled, concluded his entrance into the building had indeed gone unnoticed. Excellent.
Pistol at the ready, he crept over to the door and risked opening it an inch or so to peer out into the main vestibule. He had to know exactly what the situation was before he could act.
Sorry I haven't been replying more quickly, ended up a little busier on Sunday than I usually am.
@MST3K 4ever
Dawkins looks like a compelling character! Looking forward to the Dawkins-Hawkins partnership. Accepted.
@BingTheWing
I was wondering when we'd get a Vietnam vet. McMahon looks like a good enforcer and bad news in general. Accepted.
@role model
One possibility if you don't want a huge supporting cast is to play as a state or federal investigator newly arrived in O'Connor County. That way they might be a little isolated.
@MST3K 4ever
Dawkins looks like a compelling character! Looking forward to the Dawkins-Hawkins partnership. Accepted.
@BingTheWing
I was wondering when we'd get a Vietnam vet. McMahon looks like a good enforcer and bad news in general. Accepted.
@role model
One possibility if you don't want a huge supporting cast is to play as a state or federal investigator newly arrived in O'Connor County. That way they might be a little isolated.
© 2007-2024