OOC Information: All information is considered Out-Of-Character until you learn it through In-Character means.
Content Warning: Descriptions of horrific crimes listed below - user discretion advised.
The flophouse in Burnside has decent parking, as far as square footage, especially when compared to its neighboring slumlord-run hellholes. Despite this, there's a fairly robust trade in flesh, dope and other illicit exchanges done even in broad daylight within its confines. The local turf is more or less in the hands of Townsend's people, only until someone much more violent and aggressive in their marketing needs is due - time will tell the tale as to what will happen, sooner rather than later.
An arriving Lincoln Town Car is hardly cause for concern - half of the patrons for the informal market are from richer, more developed neighborhoods, so high-end vehicles aren't unusual; seeing three men in almost-matching tracksuits exit with their hands in bundles of roses, that's the unusual part. Most of the street-folk know to steer clear of people with such things, as a simple affectation can disguise anything from a crowbar to a sawed-off shotgun, and countless disasters in between - nobody wants to test the theory as to what those bundles contain.
Rather than barge into the place, they wait, hands stashed in front of them for the lead, while the two flanking him keep theirs behind their backs, chins raised defiantly - nobody feels brave enough to push, although someone does ask, whom do they seek? To this, they have one word, the answer which writes the future: Townsend. If it's a hit squad, they're unusual sedate. If it's something else, well.. that'll be something else, then.
Placing a beer down where he got it on the 'spool'. He places his front two legs of his chair down and says, "The future of what.... exactly?" I ain't exactly known as a fortune teller 'round here. But if I do I'll be sure to win the lotto."
It's one of the three, the front man, who speaks, looking at Townsend. "Mr. Blanco," he says quietly, his voice firm and resolute. With that said, he lays down the bundle of roses, revealing.. it's just floral life. No hidden threat, just.. flowers. He says nothing further, only gestures with his chin toward the parked Lincoln Town Car, laying on the street like a dull, rust-toned lozenge, quietly idling. They kept the engine running and the vehicle unoccupied, such is their sheer confidence.
Townsend has a certain bit of respect for some cocky assholes like this. Nodding to no one in particular he gets up looking at his mate next to him while he points at the beer accusingly. After smiling at everyone around him he says, "My limo awaits!" and then proceeds to join the men.
One of the three, the spokesman, doesn't move an inch and simply takes a seat on the cement, unmoving from that position, his hand moving to place a baseball cap on his head - plain, generic, dull-green in color, no logos or labels, and he stares at the traffic going by, feet parked in front of him, knees bent, breathing steadily; apparently, a hostage to fortune.
For those in-the-know, it sends a strong message: if something happens to Townsend, that same fate can be freely visited on the sacrificed member left in their wake. The two remaining flank Townsend lightly, never touching him, and guide him into the rear of the vehicle; both of them take seats at the front, keeping him well clear of their range and reach.
Looking back at the almost archaic sign of respect, Townsend suggests, "Let him have my seat, maybe grab him a beer while he's here... we take care of honored guests." Then he turns back and nod at the minders and takes his place.
The drive is short, lasting only about eleven blocks - and ends with a stop in a construction site, where three office-style cargo containers are set up, and despite the absence of workers, there's a scattering of definitely-not-workers around the perimeter, some of whom lounge near SUVs and sedans. Clearly, this is a high-end meeting, arranged at some considerable expense and the delivery looks to be fulfilled when three thick-necked thugs approach the passenger-side door and one holds it open for Townsend.
"Mr. Blanco," one of them says politely, aiming his chin toward the furthest container-office, the ground in between the parked sedan and its door a muddy mess coated liberally in fine gravel. Heavy equipment, no operators in sight, lay like frozen dinosaurs of metal and hydraulics, locked in place until reactivated. Neither of the two who accompanied Townsend leave the vehicle - he's to walk toward the office on his own.
A bit off his game in an experience like this, he says, "Gentlemen.." and slowly, guardedly makes his way as directed fully appreciating that if this were a trap the best he can hope for is to take a couple with him. He furrows his head a moment in the realization this might be them just showing respect which is even more troubling for his future.
The door is opened from the inside and Townsend is greeted by a silent, unsmiling man in his sixties. Behind him, seated at a desk at the far end of the open office, is a familiar-ish face: Louis Blanco, local Mob mid-boss and general, all-purpose distributor and purveyor of illicit thrills. "Leave us," the much-younger man behind the desk says, and the elder occupant politely edges beyond Townsend, closing the door behind him.
"Townsend," Mr. Blanco says, "I'm very much happy that you arrived so readily. My .. associate, Mr. Pilotti, he believed you'd buck the offer and stick to your turf." He gives a warm, almost-congenial smile, one that doesn't quite touch his eyes; those remain cool, steely, filled with a bitter resolve. "Take a seat, please. Your time, as it is said, is money.. and you'll be paid for your experience here, of that, you can rest assured." In front of the only chair before the desk is a white, plain envelope, looking to be overstuffed with.. well, something.
Reflexively watching the older man leave, he then turns back to the man speaking and is very close to saying something snarky and stupid but bites his tongue... even a moron like Townsend knows his place at a time like this. Trying to cover up his nervousness at being so vulnerable he intentionally moves the chair, as if to say 'I decide where I sit.' He then quietly sits as directed eyeing the envelope. With a dry mouth he says, "What can I do for you Mr. Blanco?" His attempt at sounding nonchalant hollow even to himself.
"I'd say 'relax'," Mr. Blanco says, "Except that you shouldn't. Yesterday, I was a dangerous man, most of this morning, I was a dangerous man, and tomorrow, the forecast is excellent for me remaining a dangerous man." There's a hint of mirth to his tone, just not his eyes. "Being wary did exactly one good thing, and that.. it seeks out forgiveness, and that particular gem, it is rare in the world." Casually, he lights himself a cigarette; his lighter, a battered Zippo, has a deep, harsh scored edge to it, flicked open and shut with a snap of his long, strong fingers.
With that smileless gaze, he regards Townsend. "You saved my sister from a fate worse than death." He holds a hand up and gestures toward Townsend, as if to say, 'hey, don't sweat that' and continues. "Except that I didn't hear it from her, I heard it from some Irish prick with a badge." He then gives a throaty chuckle. "Word spread of that conversation at .." There's a theatrical pause. "Molly O'Malley's. We have eyes everywhere, so fear not, ye who seek to be just." To this, he smirks and looks amused. "The debt my sister laid on you, it's null and void - as is her 'favor', as she *did* confirm what the cop had to say. So, this is a much, much more clear answer." He leans forward slightly. "Keep her name from between your lips, Townsend, and *I* will owe you a favor." He then angles his head, nodding slightly to the newcomer.
Pursing his lips in a mean sneer with a look off into nowhere, "I most certainly didn't tell them shit about your, uh, the person there. They asked me about the fucko who lived there and while normally I'm more comfortable skinnin' pig-fat... this was different. I respect her. She did me a solid and I don't wish to ever ask for payment. I want to make sure sicko fucks like dat dude get what's comin'. I know we could do that too but this is different. It's, I just, he isn't human." He sits forward pushing the envelope toward the other man and finally saying, "If this is to keep me quiet, you don't need to. I got nothing but respect and her name is lost to me forever. The only favor I'd ever ask for is what this dude has to do with it?" He then flicks the contact card from the house onto the desk.
Glancing to the envelope, Mr. Blanco is an attentive listener, and his eyebrows raise at seeing the business card. "We have him elsewhere, being asked some difficult, soul-searching questions, and you need not think of him again," the man says coolly. "So, the money, it's not for silence - I said it was for 'time'. If I meant 'silence', that is exactly the word that I would have chosen, Townsend." He takes on a much, much more menacing look, his jaw setting in like an iron door.
"However, I am feeling.. 'charitable', so.." He relaxes, visibly growing less and less upset, his skin smoothing back and paling from the pinkish tone it had taken mere moments previously. "To that end, you have a new role and function - that cop, he's going to be a pipeline of information, and our general assessment is, so is that location where you met. As such, you listen.. then you report to us." His smile spreads rapidly. "Regular paydays for regular information. That, it's just for showing up.. and being open to the idea. If it's the only one you want, then.. it'll be the only one that you get." He folds his hands in front of him, beaming at Townsend.
Townsend frowns at the unexpected turn this has taken. He goes to speak but stops, he sits thinking a moment and tries again, "Payment for work is a deal I'm always willing to make. I got no problem helping you get what you want, and for that a buck or two my way would help pay the rent, y'know. But I want your word the bar and its folk are left alone, 'cause they're good people. Also, I'd ask for what you know about that chump who makes ID's. If he had something to do with that sicko, I'mma gut him like a fish before he has time shit himself." With that said he gets a stern look to try to reinforce his own belief that he has some say in all this.
Townsend is gifted with a cool, lifeless gaze from Mr. Blanco. "As best that I can estimate," he says with that faux-polite tone, "He's being cut into pieces and forced to decide on if he wishes to suffer the pain or to deliver it on his wife. The longest someone's held out has been six fingers before they're willing to do anything to alleviate the agony." He angles his head. "Or maybe he's just being beaten with a sockful of dimes. The thing is, you won't, and don't, get to know, Townsend, because it doesn't involve you further. If you wish to see, with perfect clarity, what he's experiencing.." Then he smirks slightly. "..fuck with me on this again."
He then rises to his full height, a rather impressive six-four, his wide shoulders set with resolve. "Our meeting is at an end. As for the bar and its people.. it continues to serve a useful function, and things that are useful.. well, they continue to be. So, that said: go, be useful." He gestures to the door and the world beyond it.
Making a gesture as if to say 'that'll do' he stands, takes the envelope, leaving the card, then gives a fake but respectful salute and walks out. Not trusting himself to say anything useful he merely says, "Thank you for the job, sir." He turns and leaves hoping he doesn't take a few in the back.
Outside of the cargo container office there's a man with a blood-stained hood over his head, his hands bound in front of him with industrial-strength duct tape, both ankles bound by a bicycle U-lock, making him largely immobilized, and supported by one of the three men who greeted Townsend after he left the sedan.
The driver of the sedan is now standing close to the office door, looking up at Townsend and motioning for the man to join him, namely in the front seat. The man in the hood whimpers softly, his body odor of sweat, urine and fear radiating off of him like a cheap cologne.
A scant moment later, the door opens from inside, and Mr. Blanco hands over the envelope to Townsend directly. "You forgot your paycheck," he says politely, then turns, his eyes scanning the man with the bag on his head, gesturing for the next guest to be escorted into the office space.
It looks like it's not a great day to be someone else.
Townsend smiles to himself as he gets into the car; he mutters, "I hope that fuck dies, slowly." He looks at the driver as if to say, 'let's go'.
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