#easywork

"I thought you hated everything."

The words kept echoing through Spades Slick's head. I thought you hated everything. He didn't hate the whiskey sour in front of him and he didn't hate the table in front of the booth he liked to sit at, even if he hated the cushion he'd singlehandedly worn down since the last time he remodeled the club. He didn't hate the club, either. He didn't know if he hated the guy on the other cushion, though. He did hate that it was probably more comfortable to sit on the other side, sure, but that had nothing to do with his complicated feelings surrounding Problem Sleuth.

A hand crossed his vision and Slick looked up. "Hey, Earth to Spades, buddy. Can you hear me over there? I said I thought you hated everything."

Slick scowled at the hand, batting at it angrily. "I don't hate everything. How the hell would you know what I'm in the business of hating anyway?"

"I don't. I'm just getting my ducks in a row." The detective flashed one of those award-winning shit-eating grins in Slick's direction. He could've stabbed the stupid son of a bitch over it, too. Instead of reaching for the knife in his pocket, though, he picked up his drink and shook his head. And Sleuth, ever-aware, mirrored the motion strategically, at least, that what Slick thought. Lawmen did it to him before, acting all natural and coping comfortable gestures for the sake of rapport and intel. "Figuring out the business you wanted with me. Usually you're not telling me to sit down."

"Yeah, well, some fish ain't big enough for me to fry, I figure if rumors're true and you're lookin' for a job, you can finally do something useful in this city."

As expected, that knocked the smarmy look off the bastard's face. It fell kind of slowly and a light left his eyes, which cut across the bar. It made Slick tilt his head and raise his eyebrows in fascination. He'd seen it a thousand times before, but this time, it was interesting. Sleuth paused for a second before getting his next line out.

"Didn't know it was a rumor." "Mhm."

For maybe a solid ninety seconds, the affirmative hum hung in the air between them. It felt like Slick waited, and waited, and kept waiting for the guy to say anything. He could ponder the public state of his finances all he wanted, he wasn't going to make any more money sitting there looking stupid. If Sleuth wanted to waste time looking stupid, he could, at least until the end of his ninety seconds, when Slick got bored of waiting. That's how it usually went, anyway. He didn't usually study the guy's facial expressions either, though.

Slick sighed dramatically after a hundred seconds this go around, reaching across the table. He patted Sleuth on the face condescendingly, a little too rough. The detective pulled away from his hand, looking... Surprised. Slick was surprised to see him look surprised. It was better than when he looked all snarky, with those stupid green eyes blown all wide, it was almost funny. Sleuth cleared his throat. "What was that?"

"Makin' sure you was still with me. You want the job or not?" "What's the job?"

That's what Slick hoped to hear. He sat back against his booth, digging in his pockets before sliding a folding and crumpled piece of paper across the table. Sleuth wasted no time in opening it up and examining the contents. The map was crudely drawn and the handwriting was barely legible, exactly what was expected of the esteemed Spades Slick, but it was certainly a map. He's able to discern the docks and identify a few labels on the warehouses, which Sleuth determined, was probably sufficient. One of those warehouses were marked, distinguished from the others by a star drawn across it.

"I got a bug problem." "A bug problem?" "Mhm. Infestation. Sons of bitches won't get outta my fuckin' warehouse."

Sleuth looked at the map incredulously, then back at Slick. "I wear a lot of hats, Spades, but uh, I'm not an exterminator. I've fixed roach infestations in my own apartment but-"

"Not... Literally, fuckin' twit." "Then I'm going to need you to clarify what, exactly, you expect me to do here." "I was gettin' there before you started talkin' about hats. I want you to go clear 'em out. Spook 'em. Make 'em think the law's on their asses. Just run 'em out, ring the number on the back, and you're done. Easy work."

Sleuth sighed, looking back at the map in front of him. He'd lived in Midnight City for some years now, he'd worked briefly on the city's police force, and for more than that, he'd been chasing down Spades Slick. If he knew anything, he knew that there was no such thing as easy work in Midnight City, and Slick certainly didn't have a habit of sharing the easy parts of work with anyone but himself. He flipped the page to look at the phone number before looking back at the mobster in front of him and weighing his options.

"Fine."

Slick reached out for a handshake and Sleuth returned it, folding the paper and sliding it into his pocket. "Great. I'll be waitin'."

Sleuth stood up. "Mhm."

[[ Fixed and Stable Monthly income ]] Work Type : [Software based Code promotion] [[ Smart phone must Required]]

Working Hours -- Only 2 hours Daily

One would expect that when Problem Sleuth wanted to talk business, he'd want to talk about what happened. Who those kids were. Why someone would steal from Spades fucking Slick like it wasn't a death sentence. Maybe he'd take out a little notebook like they do in detective cartoons, take a magnifying glass down to the warehouse, fingerprints, something, but no. No, the first words out of Sleuth's mouth were, "do you want a drink before we talk about payment?"

==> <== FIRST

"Me neither," was not what Problem Sleuth had been hoping to hear come out of Spades Slick's mouth. Not at all. Nope. He'd been hoping for a plan, a vague outline of what Slick had brewing in the back of his head, but the nothing-filled double-down burger he kept receiving made his heartbeat pick up. It occurred to Sleuth that Slick seemed to intend to give him literally nothing, so he fell back a pace and a half to think.

Slick intended to... tell them where they were. He was going to walk in, holler a threat, and hope for the best. That was fine. Slick didn't seem prepared for a shootout though, so Sleuth drew his gun to hold it at his side. He hoped to God that there wouldn't be a shootout. It would be hard to explain why he'd been seen with Spades Slick right before any kind of crime, much less a murder. Jesus Christ have mercy on his soul, he was about to commit a murder with Spades Slick.

Okay, he wasn't getting a plan but he could hear his heartbeat. When Sleuth started talking, his own voice sounded a little bit distant. "What do you expect?"

"Nothing. I expect this to work."

"What's supposed to work, Spades?"

"It's fucking kids pretending to be a gang. They're twenty-one, twenty-two, they're gonna scatter like rats."

It's fucking kids. Oh, he was going to Hell for whatever was about to happen. No repentance and no prayer, no fucking baptism was going to wash this awful feeling away. He was going to threaten people who were barely old enough to drink.

"What?"

Slick stopped and turned to face him. There was no twisted snarl on his face. His tone softened up just a little bit, the most Sleuth had ever heard. Or, maybe he was seeing what the panic in the back of his skull thought it needed in the moment. He didn't really know at all. "Relax. It's easy, we're just gonna scare 'em away. Put the fuckin' gun away."

Sleuth looked at his gun. His hand wasn't steady anymore. He took a breath. Slick sounded different, he'd been trying to figure that out. He needed to focus. Easy to focus on him sounding different when Slick started talking again. "Sleuth, look at me. Put the gun away. C'mon. Look here."

He sounded further away, yeah. This familiar feeling, like he was in the passenger seat of the experience. Funny, he'd just been driving, great joke, Sleuth. He needed to focus. He'd gotten out of the car just a second ago and followed Slick down here and they were doing a job together, scaring some kids. Freaked him out a little. He'd thinking about why Slick sounded further away and he really hadn't been listening to Slick, had he? "Problem Sleuth. Eyes on me."

Sleuth looked up. "Put the gun away." He did. "What the hell's got into you?" 

It was quiet for a second and then, he shook his head. "Nothing. Let's get this over with."

Problem Sleuth walked into the club. It really was the same as ever, the lights were dim and violet and red, whoever was running music was running swing instead of smooth jazz, meaning it'd been an exceptionally busy night. He tried not to think about how familiar he'd become with this place. He came on a Thursday because it wasn't slow enough to draw attention but not quite busy enough to merit any kind of live performance. The Midnight Crew played on Wednesdays and Slick would stop the set at the first sign of trouble, maybe because he was just eager to whip out a knife. Sleuth didn't really know, the guy stopped interrupting sets for him ages ago. 

Slick was sat over in that corner, facing the door, looking as miserable as ever. He was preoccupied with something in his hands from the look of it. Good. Sleuth had rehearsed this in his head he entire walk over. He'd make his demands crystal clear. It'd be easy, for real this time. It'd be easy work. I'll do your little job, he was gonna say, just as soon as you get me the tools I need. Alls I'm gonna need is a bomb. You get me some dynamite, no, C4 and we're golden, buddy boy. I'll have it done by tomorrow at midnight and you'll have my payment by noon.

Yeah. That'd do.

He leaned up against the bar, sliding over a handful of cash. Bourbon, on the rocks. Beautiful. He took a drink and turned to wander his happy ass over to Spades Slick's booth with a grin. He paid no mind to the paper in front of the mobster, nor was he interested in what his hands were writing. He had business to conduct and no matter how this ended up going, he was one-hundred percent sure that he was about to walk away with a win. "Spades Slick."

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