Red Dragon Inn
Dockside => If The Boards Could Talk => Topic started by: Nathanial Antonelli on June 16, 2007, 12:13:20 PM
"Get off my turf, Antonelli." It was a sneer, a growl, from the shadowed man inside the limosine. "Go back to where you came from and take your brat with you." An envelope was shoved through the window at a slender man standing in the street. He was well dressed, dapper, in an armani suit and slick clean shoes. He had a mustache that curled just a little at the edges as it caught the light of the moon.
The alley was dark and it was cast in shadow-- they were stark against the blue light that an almost full moon provided. The garbage cans that lined one wall were all overflowing-- sanitation crews having been on strike now for a week. The smell was pungent, overpowering, a strong mix of old cabbage and dirty sox. It hung in the air like a fog, and colored the meeting.
"Those workers better start working tomorrow, or you're all dead." The shiny limo pulled off, splashing muddy water onto the pants and shoes of the man.
"Damnit." He cursed to himself. "Damnit, damnit, damnit." Kicking a pebble across the alley, he stuck his hands into his pockets and ambled off towards Old Towne and the West End. The envelope was long tucked into the inside pocket of his suit.
Nathanial Antonelli was in trouble.
He wasn't sure he wanted to leave. Home held nothing for him now-- his father and brother both dead, and at least here he had a vague network of friends, connected men, people that would work with him, eat with him, drink with him.
Also, with leaving meant defeat and Antonelli's never lost.
It was war between him and the man in the limousine. Nate controlled the unions and the man the sanitation business. The longer the strike went on, the more money the man was losing. Nate kept his choke hold over territory. It was that simple. It was construction rights for the docks they were bickering over-- families falling into financial ruin at their feet.
The clicking of expensive shoes on the pavement and Nate disappeared into the crowd. As he moved through the dockside nighttime throng, he contemplated his next move. It seemed, to him, that he had all the power. No one was making money and the city was besieged. So why would he let up? Why would he stop?
And what he overlooked there was his fatal mistake.
Alain sat in his office with his chair leaned as far back as it would go, feet on his desk nudging an empty glass that had held a double of whiskey moments ago. It was eight in the morning. His notepad was on his knee, and he was frowning at it.
Just when he thought Rhy'Din was in its metaphorical summer, things had heated up even more. Sanitation workers were on strike, and the sanitation business was reacting the way the detective thought it would - like it was under the thumb of mobsters. No one had been killed, but some socialist had his legs broken, and the union on strike wasn't too happy about that. Whatever resolved this issue, it wouldn't be too diplomatic.
A man from the sanitation business had come by with a business offer, to follow a guy. Alain had asked him a little bit, and the man (just a little too well-dressed, even for a businessman) had replied, "Just some dapper prick in Armani." He turned down the offer... but hung onto that piece of information.
Alain grinned to himself, leaned forward, and refilled his glass. There wasn't much he could do, or wanted to do, about this... and not a thing to do about the orgy of fetishistic violence the West End had become... so why not just sit and drink?