Business and the Promise of Business

[hazlogs]

[1/19/98]

Currently on this gusty and freezing winter morning in the general St. Claire 
  area, it is 24 degrees Fahrenheit (-4.4 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming 
  from the south-southwest at 11.4 mph. The ground is normal. Skies are clear 
  with a possible chance of precipitation.
Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (57% full).

East Elson Commercial Sector and Waterfront
Motels, movie theaters with posters of scantily-clad women, and even a few 
  posters of nudes, and bars are interspersed with stairways leading to 
  dilapidated second stories or downwards into basements. Women saunter along 
  the western streets of the district, around Third and Fourth Streets. In the 
  area around Second, a profusion of graffiti markings of black knives or the 
  words 'The Blades' are scattered along buildings and sidewalks. A little 
  further eastwards beer cans are scattered around the entrance to one bar 
  with, if one looks through the window, several pool tables in enthusiastic 
  use for several hours a night and even occasionally during the day.

Striding down the street with what almost seems like a purpose in mind comes 
  Sally MacKay. Her cheeks reddened from the cold and her hands deep within 
  her pockets, she checks out both sides of the street as she goes. Her smile 
  is absent.

Salem stands on the pavement near the old Rialto, caught in the act of 
  lighting a cigarette, his coat collar turned up against the cold and belted 
  closed around his waist.

Sally spots the Garou and her eyes lock onto him, leaving only for a quick 
  glance back and forth as she crosses to his side of the street. "Hey," she 
  gives him her usual greeting in a tone that's close to neutral as she nears, 
  stopping a touch outside the usual distance she allows.

Salem glances up at the greeting and gives her a nod, the fresh cigarette 
  smoking between his lips. "Good morning." He doesn't smile, being well aware 
  of the distance and the reason for it, and bitter anger shifts restlessly 
  behind his eyes. His tone, though, remains civil.

"I got the name." No small talk, no pre-business banter.

"Good." Salem matches her tone with cynical ease, his words clipped and almost 
  as cold as the winter air. After a moment, he adds, "Thank you."

Sally MacKay's hand wiggles into the front pocket of her jeans and she pulls 
  out a folded piece of lined notebook paper. Holding it up between her index 
  and middle finger, she lets him see it, then draws it back. Him being 
  taller, it's not really drawn out of his reach, but it is, after all, the 
  thought that counts.

Salem starts to reach for it, but stops as Sally makes that pull-back motion. 
  His face darkens considerable, the ever-present threat of violence shifting 
  up a notch, eyes narrowing. "Don't play games, Sally," he says, gaze 
  directed into her eyes. "Not today. Not now."

Sally's expression is serious, her eyes more so. "No games," she agrees, 
  sounding almost sad, tired. She's not able to hold his gaze, though nor does 
  she offer the paper. "Tell me."

Salem lets his hand drop, lips tightening. "Not out here. Not out in the 
  street."

Sally doesn't look around to confirm her words before saying in her unchanging 
  tone, "No one's around, no one will hear." She drops the hand holding the 
  paper.

Salem mutters what sounds like a swear-word, but it's not in English. Inhaling 
  upon the cigarette again, he glances around, and then turns back to Sally, 
  his face still tight, tense, far too alert. "What is it you want me to tell 
  you?"

Sally MacKay's eyes are still avoiding him, and soon enough she makes it even 
  easier to do that by leaning her back against the wall and staring off 
  across the street. "About-" She pauses, then changes direction mid-sentence, 
  "About clearing out the Pool Hall. How. Why." The last two aren't questions, 
  just flat little words. "Tell me."

Salem grunts. "I told you. I've been cursed." He takes another drag on the 
  cigarette and exhales a cloud of grayish smoke. "I don't know why. It's just 
  a fact of life for me." The words come out sharp, clipped; he doesn't like 
  talking about himself, giving himself away, even a little bit. "I piss 
  people off. Or scare them. Usually scare them." He takes another drag and 
  then absently rubs at his eyes with the heel of one ungloved hand.

"Cursed?" Sally repeats, staring at the shop across the street. Her head turns 
  enough to allow her to see him out of the edge of her vision as she expands 
  her question in what might almost come off as a flippant tone, "By a gypsy, 
  bit by a friggin werewolf, or you just got lucky?" She starts looking back 
  towards him in time to see his eye-rubbing head on.

Salem's lips twitch at the word 'werewolf,' but he shows no other reaction as 
  his hand drops from his face and he flicks ash onto the pavement. "I was 
  born with it."

Sally MacKay looks dissatisfied and suddenly restless, uncomfortable, unhappy. 
  "Here," She holds the paper out to him, her face turning away once more. 
  "Take it."

Salem takes the paper without a word, not even bothering to look at the 
  contents before he tucks it away in his coat pocket.

Sally MacKay stands there a moment longer, her back to the cold brick wall. 
  Then she pushes herself up, not looking towards his face. "Between eight and 
  midnight he'll be there. Look for the guy in the long coat and old hat."

Salem nods, making a small sound of acknowledgement. "Anything else I should 
  know?" His tone is all business now, though the bitterness remains.

"He's a Latino guy, my friend said he's easy to spot," Sally starts walking 
  off, then stops after only a step or two. Her hand is back in her pocket and 
  she turns back to regard him with a look of disappointment that would be 
  hard to miss.

Salem meets her gaze for a moment, and the look on his face is so dark, so 
  cynical and angry and alienated that you can almost touch it, like a 
  festering wound. And then, abruptly, he turns on his heel and stalks into 
  the abandoned theatre.

[Much later...]

The Rialto -- Auditorium(#3319RJ)
        The roar of the crowd. The smell of greasepaint. "Now is the winter of 
  our discontent..." An old, darkly nostalgic quality hangs heavy in the air 
  of this empty old theater. Once black-painted windows no longer refuse the 
  light of sun and moon, now broken and open to the city sky.
        Largely gutted now, this once gilded and opulent theater spreads like 
  an old grand dame holding desperately to a past now gone and largely 
  forgotten. The plush seats which once held nearly a thousand people are, for 
  the most part, long gone. Time's indifferent hand has dulled the once ornate 
  proscenium arch and faded the velvet red of the main curtain, leaving the 
  wide stage in dark shadows before the gaping and toothless mouth of the 
  music pit.
        At the right side of the stage, from the auditorium floor, a door 
  leads toward the back of the theater. To the left of the stage, an old exit 
  sign still glows above a reinforced door. In the back of the auditorium, 
  archways lead back to the lobby and the boarded up front doors.

Morgan makes her afternoon stop by the Rialto, the metal door to the alley of 
  the old theater closing behind her with an unoiled squeak. She steps down to 
  the floor of the auditorium and glances around.

Salem is sitting on the edge of the stage, a half-smoked cigarette burning in 
  one hand, his face half-obscured by the tilt of his head and the fall of 
  black hair. He seems calm enough - well, as calm as a Garou like him can be 
  - but there's a chair lying against one of the far walls, looking as though 
  it was thrown there.

Morgan starts to peel off her gloves and walks towards the stage. "Hey, 
  Salem," she says softly. She glances towards the chair, and then back to the 
  Garou, and shifts her weight, standing casually off-center. "Furniture 
  Olympics?"

Salem glances up, sharply, his face a twisted collection of bitterness and 
  anger, dark rage squirming and coiling behind his deep-set eyes. "What?"

Morgan smiles pleasantly at the other Garou and nods towards the wall. "I was 
  wondering if you decided to try the Chair Shot-Put." She turns towards the 
  wall and delivers her verdict with a straight face. "Looks like you got a 
  good score."

Salem shifts his attention toward the violently abused chair, and then back to 
  the Fury, though his eyes don't stay on her face long enough to be
  considered challenging or aggressive. "Sorry," he says, tones clipped,
  humorless.

Morgan smirks and shrugs. "S'okay, man. That's why we wanted you around. There 
  ain't much left in here to break, good or bad." She shifts back to look at 
  Salem and studies his face for a moment before she backs away to sit on the 
  slight auditorium incline towards the stage. "You ever thought about 
  settling down somewhere?"

Salem keeps alert to her movements, watching out of the corner of his eye with 
  the painfully tense attentiveness of a wolf in hostile territory. "Mf. 
  Sometimes." He takes another drag on the cigarette, unwilling to add more 
  unless pressed, wary of opening himself to attack - on any level.

Morgan draws her knees up towards her chest, the Fury painting a very 
  non-threatening, relaxed posture with her hands clasped around her knees. "I 
  can't imagine what you've been through, Salem. Not even a glimmering." She 
  pauses, canting her head to watch him for a moment. "You must have tried to 
  start over again, somewhere."

Salem taps ash into a dented beer can - Coors, the 'Silver Bullet' - that's 
  sitting next to him on the stage. His face reveals little beyond tension and 
  the edge of desolation. "Easily said." His mouth tightens. "I... thought 
  about it. Once."

"Yeah?" the Fury prompts, softly, leaning forward a little, her body pulled 
  into a compact bundle of motion at rest. "What happened?"

"It didn't work out," is all the Ronin says. He seems to regret opening 
  himself even that much.

Morgan nods back at Salem, her lips shaping a sympathetic smile at him. 
  "Sorry," she says. She uncurls her arms from her legs and then lets her legs 
  slide down to the cold concrete floor. "I don't know if you've heard or not, 
  but we've heard there might be some leeches coming into town here. You told 
  me you knew about them."

Salem's eyes narrow, his head coming up like that of a wolf catching a hostile 
  scent. He scans her face for a moment and then looks away, inhaling another 
  lungful of cigarette smoke. "I do."

Morgan's face is relaxed, but there's an edge to her eyes that implies there's 
  more to her than what one sees at first glance. A hard edge and a nerves of 
  steel back the blue in her eyes. She holds Salem's look and nods. "I've been 
  a fostern for almost four years, now, and though I've dealt with leeches, I 
  don't know much about what I've heard."

"I know... quite a lot." Salem taps ash into the old beer can again, nerves 
  stretched tight. Restless, he rises, pacing a few steps across the stage as 
  though unable to sit still any longer. "Enough to know that if there _are_ 
  leeches in the area, the amount of shit this city's in depends on what kind 
  of leeches they are."

Morgan stretches a worried frown across her mouth and rises to her feet, as 
  well, rising in a single cat-like motion. "Kind?" she asks, tucking her 
  hands into her pockets. "What do you men?"

Salem takes another drag on the cigarette and turns toward the Fury. "If 
  they're the kind that still cling to their humanity, you're all in luck." 
  The words are clipped, tones touched faintly with some accent, possibly 
  European. "Those kind are easier to deal with. Fuck, some Garou even make 
  treaties with those kind." His face twists into a grimace of distaste. "If 
  they're the other kind, you're all in deep shit. Shit so deep you might as 
  well be dealing with fucking Spiral Dancers."

Morgan's nose wrinkles. "You're talking about all out war," she says.

Salem meets her eyes directly. "Yes," he says, flatly. "They're called the 
  Sabbat and they won't stop until every Garou is dead. They'll destroy the 
  city and burn the forest to the ground, if they can. They'll take your 
  Kinfolk and turn them against you. They fight in packs and will _die_ for 
  each other and for their Sect." He grows more agitated, Rage broiling out of 
  his eyes, the hand holding the cigarette trembling slightly with the force 
  of it. "You can't talk to them. You can't reason with them. You can only 
  kill them, burn the corpses and scatter the ashes."

Morgan's eyes drop away from Salem's for the first time. She looks back at him 
  and shakes her head, almost like she's in some kind of denial. "Holy Gaia's 
  love," she exclaims, the words flowing out almost unbidden. "All out war," 
  she repeats, her posture turning erect, her eyes glinting like ice blue 
  steel. "Well," she says, sounding confident. "We will battle the Wyrm 
  whereever it lives and whereever it breeds. And if it comes to our turf, 
  then it's just easier to hunt it."

The muscle near Salem's left eye twitches, and the Ronin takes a moment to 
  recover his composure, with limited success; his hand is still shaking 
  slightly as he takes another drag on the cigarette. "Of course," he says, 
  his voice a bit hollow. "But you might want to pray it isn't them. That it's 
  the first kind."

Morgan inhales a sharp breath and sets her jaw, resolutely. "We will give no 
  ground, offer no quarter. Those are the rules by which my pack and I run." 
  Her cheek muscle twitches slightly, a reddish flush coloring her cheeks. 
  "Sabbat or no."

Salem doesn't argue with the daughter of Weasel; he merely gives her a short 
  nod. Abruptly, he offers, "I can tell you a great deal more. Details, that 
  might help. Either now, or later, with the rest of your pack present. As you 
  require." Taking refuge in a businesslike manner, his control reasserts 
  itself, the trembling in his hand growing still.

"Don't you think destroying the blood sucking Wyrmspawn would be more 
  satisfying than ripping chairs from the floor and smashing them against the 
  wall?" The Fury's voice is low, husky, full of menance and emotion.

Salem turns to look at Morgan, his frown as hard as concrete. His reply, 
  though, has a bitter, cynical humor all it's own. "Does a Red Talon shit in 
  the woods?"

Morgan's cheek twitches again, and then the Fury breaks into a harsh sounding 
  low laugh. "Indeed," she replies, her nose still wrinkled with the force of 
  her emotions. She swallows, glances at the alley door, and then back to 
  Salem. "I'm going out to freeze my ass off. I figure the cold might take 
  some of the starch from my anger." She offers a half-smile, though the steel 
  still shows her in pupils.

Salem utters a grunt of acknowledgement. "Be seeing you, then."

Morgan leaves through the exit door into the alley.
Morgan has left.