Debt of Non-Blood - Epilog

Debt of Non-Blood – Epilog

“And then I came straight here.  I should have informed you first, but, well, I thought of your responsibilities.”  I told the crippled man in front of me, a pair of plates of pasta between us.  He had a pair of typical muscle behind him, an ork and a human.  I had Murphy behind me, more than equal to the two of them.

I was back at the Crime Mall, at what passed for the head offices, the Italian Restaurant.  Paul Fianachetti had been an enforcer for the Chicago Families back in the day, and another of Grandpa's crew in Chicago during the Bug Crisis, but broke his back falling down a sinkhole in late 2055, spending most of his time keeping their electronic equipment in working order and running a command and control centre.  Despite being stuck in a wheelchair, he still took out three Ant Spirits that came after him, the third with a bowie knife that he still wore on his shoulder.

He had moved to Seattle, and was put in charge of the Crime Mall as a way for the three Mafia families to have a neutral third (fourth?) party be in charge of something that had become essential to the underworld of Seattle.  An operation allowed him to walk again, but only in pain.

“My, responsibilities.”  He said carefully.  He was sensitive about his condition.

“Exactly.  The Mafia can't be seen trying to crack down on these chips, someone might think they were either involved with them in the first place, bad news; or perhaps they were trying to muscle in on the activities.  That would look bad.”  I said, having thought up the excuse on the way here.

He took a mouthful of pasta with a meatball, using the time to chew on the food to also chew on the thought, then swallowed, “OK.  That makes sense.  Either that, or you're like the Old Man and just got pissed off and went raring off on a tangent, bringing down heaven and earth.”

“Hey, heard any explosions?  I have a bit more self control than Grandfather does.”  I said, smiling honestly, and taking my own mouthful.  It was good stuff, and real beef meatballs.

“All right, but that's one of the areas we control as well, which means we'll want to see what's what there, yaknow?  I'll get one of the cleaner teams in there, see what they can find.  Better than any corporate crime scene guys, that's for sure, they have to know how to prevent them from finding anything, so they know how to look as well.  You'll get a copy of their finding.”  He said, pointing at me with a fork.  The human behind him looked uncomfortable at that, but kept his silence.

“Thank you Paul.”  I said, “And sorry for having taken so much of your time.”  I stood up and shook his hand.

“Money Johnson, you're always welcome here.  After this unpleasantness is done, come see me, I might need some work I need outsourced, and you're a good person to get that done.”  He smiled, and patted my shoulder.
***
Driving back across town, bringing Murphy home, I realized something, “Murphy, I'm going about this wrong.”  I told my passenger.

“Huh?”  He asked, checking in on his forum posts while we drove.  There wasn't any wireless connection at his home, and the line-up for the dataterminal back home was long.

“Simple, Murphy, I'm acting like I would in the Light, like an investigator.  This is a Shadow concern.  This is Shadow business.  I should treat it as such.”

“Soes dat meanz we bust more headz?”

“No...  It means we work smarter, and with a bigger budget.  Get ready for work tomorrow, Murphy.”  I said, working my own commlink, booking reservations at the Big Rhino, “And wear your fancy suit.”  I started writing e-mails to Fixers now, telling them what I wanted, and started mentally planning out the next night.

“Awwwwwwwwwwwww...”  Murphy complained.  He hated the suit.
***
The Big Rhino was a restaurant that made itself famous for being one of the first selling “authentic ork cuisine”.  Typically, it wasn't smart to come here unless you were an ork or troll yourself, but I'm here often enough that I'm a regular, and Murphy, in his well fitting but much hated suit, was playing bodyguard anyhow.  It would keep the wanna-bes out for the most part.

The first group of Shadowrunners came through the door, and were very much like your typical group, “The scum of the Earth ... enlisted for drink” as the Duke of Wellington is said to have put it.  But they'd do for a start.  They strode forward like they owned the bar, and pissed off a few of the patrons and staff.

“Gentlemen.”  I said over my plate of lightly sautéed centipedes, delicately seasoned with a nice rose wine, “Welcome.  My name, as you probably guessed, is Mister Johnson.  And it is my hope that we're able to come to a business arrangement that is mutually beneficial...”  I smiled at them, and felt them feel uncomfortable immediately.

Never trust the smiling Johnson.