Bill wrinkles up his forehead.
"Um about a ring's worth. Just a second." He scoots back down the bar, leans over it, and calls out a guy's name.  The guy is sitting with his wife, both munching on chili fries.

He comes over.  He's dressed in a shirt and pants, normal to you clothing.  He's broad shouldered, and has a solid extra tire around his belly.  He has shooter's hands.

"Mr. Norton, what's the rule on precious metals?" Bill asked.

"Ah, one half of an ounce of not more than fifty percent purity for jewelry purposes for gold, silver, and platinum in total." Mr. Norton replies. "Which is, of course, total garbage. Hi, I'm Jake Norton, local organizer for Si."

He takes your blank look, and adds.

"The Silver Initiative. We believe the Contract meant that anyone has the right to gold and silver.  Its because of us that you can have any silver at all."

"And every time there is a currency fluctuation, or inflation the press blames you guys." Aidan adds sipping his drink.

Norton sighs.  "It is a burden being the Mostest Evil Man Evar in Philly, but hey, someone's got to do it.  Good thing we don't have any serial killers more worthy of the title."

   This place had a political group called the Silver Initiative.  I wonder if they do more than just lobby for political and economic change.  Maybe Norton knows someone who does currency transactions as a sideline.  If not, I could probably find one.  Every city has that place where the people who need things done can find people to do them for a price.  I'm a pretty good detective.  I can figure it out.  Or, maybe I could just ask Bill.

   I dug into my pocket for some of the change I received from my transactions while being Misty Noir.  I selected a dime, probably one of the ones I had earned washing dishes, and showed it to Mr. Norton.  "This is one tenth of an ounce of ninety-five percent pure silver.  What is it worth money wise?  Also, I couldn't help but notice your hands.  I was a detective back home.  What are the firearm laws here in Philly?"

Indeed. You spot one guy with a flashy jacket, and a loud manner off at a table with a few others.  Your mind instinctively looks for the gun, and you spot it, along with a knife.  He looks like bad news in a petty kind of way.

Mr. Norton grows more serious. Weighs the coin on his thumb, sniffs it, and still keeping it visible pulls out a small pad from his back pocket.

"The Precious Metals exchange or PMX has Crown Silver, or moonpure, which is 98% at 98.43 pounds per pound.  So, we'll round it off to a pound as I hate dealing with pennies.  And as an SI I have dispensation to own more silver, and I have an advocate on retainer."

He hands you a one pound note.

He glances over at Bill who nods.

"Now if you had more, say more than two ounces, I might know some ways to deal with things.  The PMX will give you  25% of face.  Or 50% if you have provenance.  There are collectors who pay quite a bit better, some nobles with seats on the PMX, and a wholesaler who pays in between.  For 5% I can take you, and vouch for you, as some are not pleasant. And if this is entrapment, the SI won the last three cases against the Crown."

"If you're in your house, you can use whatever you want. An Englishman's house is his castle.  On the street, if you have permit, you can carry a .30, a .22, or an .17. Assault pistols of heavier calibre require a special dispensation....or you could join the Martini Family and flout the law." He gets a sour look on his face as the flashy guy gives  a braying laugh.

   Well, I have a pound note, so I'm technically not broke.  I even have a way of getting some operating capital, but this might not be the best time to talk about what it involves.  The thug in the flashy jacket might start getting interested and I've already got one dead body behind me this evening.

   I made a mental note to stock up on silver coins at my next visit to someplace that actually used them as currency.  I pawed through my change from 1938 to find six quarters and five more dimes.  I handed it all to Norton.  "These are all the silver coins I have.  It comes to two ounces of silver.  Perhaps you could make me an offer so I could avoid all the limitations I would face by having no valid identification at the moment."

He nods, and looks over at Bill.

"Could you spot me from the till? I'll get you back tommorrow." Mr. Norton says.  Bill nods and opens his change counter.

"Two ounces, keep it simple, twenty pounds."  Mr. Norton says, and pulls out of his pocket a five pound note, and Bill makes up the difference with money exchanged for a written IOU.  Then you get ten one's and two five pound notes. Slipped in with the money is a business card for SI.  He nods, and heads back to his wife and nosh.

"Now you can buy me that drink?" Aidan asks with a hopeful smile.

"Drink for you, and for the lush would be a ha'pound.  A sampler tray would set you back another pound." Bill says.

The TV changes to a news station.

"Breaking news: Lady Angeline DeWitt found murdered in one of her rental properties. Rumores say it was some sort of sword.  Some speculate that this is Farcoast Yakuza, others that it was the Martini Family hiring an outatowner."

The broadcast leaves the anchors, and shows the hunter of men looking harrassed on a street.
"Detective Calhoun, can you tell us...?"
He wheels on the reporter and glares down at him.

The broadcast cuts to another.
"My wife and I are dreadfully saddened. She was the youngest of four. We're posting a ten thousand pound reward for the succesful capture of her killer."
"Earl DeWitt, thank you for talking to us." The reporter sounds very respectful to the straight-backed, grayhaired man who has a palpable aura of authority.

There's some buzz in the room, and you hear one guy curse, and say he knew her.

   I ordered a beer for Aidan and a beer and the sampler platter for myself.  I paid Bill and waited until he had a free minute or two.  Bill didn't seem to have a lot of free minutes.  I divided my time between watching the news flashes about the former Lady DeWitt and the people in the bar, especially the punk in the loud jacket.

   I finally had a name to go with the body.  I had a name to go with the cop, too.  Calhoun looked competent.  I hoped that he was, since he was the lead detective on a high profile case.  This wasn't my case to work.  I have no authority, no carry permit, and no paying client.  I don't have an office, a cell phone, or even a business card to hand out to potential clients.  All I have are some unlicensed weapons and my backpack.  I'm not working this case.

   I tried to see who made the comment about knowing the Lady.  That might have been more difficult if the bar had been fuller.  I'm really not working the case.  I just wanted to see the guy who traveled in Her circle but still hung out here.

   The food was good and I was hungry.  It wasn't quite what I was expecting, though.  You can't grow up around Chicago and not know a little about Irish cooking.  I was kind of hoping for some colcannon and boiled ham.  Still, I ate every crumb...  and waited for Bill.

In reply to Misty (msg # 21):

"One terrible colonial beer", and you get a credible lighter beer in a mug.  The food is fried, and greasy, and not  Irish.  The sampler gives you one or two of everything.  The BBQ in a clamshell tomato is turkey. Edit...The chips turn out to be fried, battered white fish, and the chief spice in the egg rolls is ginger.  Its like eating a gingerbread cookie made of cabbage.

There is a crispy coated thing like a thick green bean.  One bite, and your eyes water.  Its the firefinger.

"Habanero, marinated for a week in 'special' sauce, stuffed with jalopeno sour cream, and baked in a a flour mix that is one-forth cayenne pepper." Aidan explains. "We import them from the El Mexican Provincia."

The punk has gotten quiet as soon as the news came on.  You can tell he's trying to hide his nerves.

There is a few more news bits. The RIS denies plans to get involved.  There is a mention of several serial killers who all used knives.  From listening to them, they have about a dozen current cases on such folk.

An advertisement comes on, and its a 1-900 number for Bog Witches, Ltd. asking if you want to curse someone, say your boss.

Riverdance comes on.

You spot the guy who knew her, and he's in the midst of small crowd telling what he knows.  He's dressed in working clothes in a booth on the far side of the room.  Listening, you get the impression he worked for her somehow.  He's not one of her social peers.  But he seems comfortable with that, and you see that the people here are relaxed around their 'betters', or at least some of them.

It seems like in a society where everyone knows their role there is less social competition.  A bright kid on the bottom rung can't rise to the top, so the elite is not continually pressured.

You see the punk slide out as soon as he thinks he can without attracting notice.

And Bill comes over to you.  "I gotta minute, your ladyship."
This message was last edited by the player at 22:32, Tue 26 Apr 2016.

    The punk seemed very agitated.  I'm still not working the case, but I wanted to know why he was so spooked.  It was time for him to share what he was thinking with me.  I focused in on him.

   I had no idea what a Bog Witch was, even after seeing one of their commercials.  I can only go with it must be something like the Psychic Friends Network back in my original timeline.  And, as with the Psychic Friends Network, I had no plans to ever call any Bog Witches.

   When Bill came over, I rolled my eyes at his "ladyship" comment.  "My name is Misty and while I am female, I'm seldom mistaken for a Lady.  This is a great place you have.  Thanks to Mr. Norton and you, I have almost twenty pounds.  I'm not sure what kind of lodging that much cash will buy in Philly.  Would you put in a good word for me with one of your servers?"

"But you're a noble." He objects as you watch the punk slip unobtrusively as he can toward the front door.  "Ah, three to five pounds will get you a decent to nice place to stay the night."

He nods, and calls Lisa over.  She's the waitress you saw earlier.  She seems tired and sweaty and drops down on a bar stool while Bill gets her a water. Her dark brunnette hair is drawn back in a pony tail, and she's shorter than you by a decent bit.  She's watchful and a bit quiet.  She's also trim and lightly muscled, probably from having to tote a full tray back and forth on her shoulder all night.

"Good tips, bossman."

Bill asks her, and she gives you a glance, sizing you up, and nods.  "Sure.  I warn you I have a parrot."

And punk is leaving...

   "If a place to sleep costs five pounds, I'll try to find a place for tonight.  After all you've done for me, I wouldn't feel right imposing further.  I'll go see what I can find."  I left the half pound in change on the counter as a tip for the food and drinks.

   I shrugged into my pack and headed toward the door.  I didn't have any specific direction in mind, so I decided to follow the punk.  I wasn't working the DeWitt case, but twitchy thugs make me wonder why they are so spooked.  It's just curiosity, that's all.

You leave, and go out into the night.  The streets are less populated, but there is still a good number of folks about.  Some are clearly mostly drunk, and are stumbling along.  A guy tries to sing you a drunken Christmas carol, but he keeps forgetting the lines.

The punk, now that he's out of the bar, steps wide.  Others get out of his way. A guy gives him a dark look after the punk passes, and the guy pops his knuckles.

There are very few cars now on the road.  A four wheeled police car passes you, its engine growling.

He turns down a short dead end street dotted with small trees growing in large pots, and narrow townhouses of brick.  Two girls walk, a little tipsy, up to the front door of one, and enter.

He goes to a payphone, and calls.  His manner as he begins to speak is nervous.  He's about thirty yards away, and you can't hear his words.

   I can't do from much here, so I'll have to move closer to be able to read his surface thoughts.  It didn't seem to work in the bar before the punk left.  Maybe there were too many people around creating background noise or something.

There had been an odd hum in the ether you now realize.  Its gone. And the night seems a bit colder and darker.

You slip up toward him, hiding behind small trees.

You hear some of his words, and you hear his surface thoughts.

:Boss, yeah, its Deck, yeah, Deck. Doesn't remember does he? Anyways Boss, I heard about the sticking. Yeah, I'm alone. you think I'm stupid? He thinks I'm stupid. Snot you boss. Yeah, I left the bar a bit later, went to ask what was going down.  It is in my territory after all. You idiot...how dare he talk to me that way.  I was cool. YOu think I don't sound cool, well boss I'm the king of cool and you're the king of dorks.  Yes, boss, of course, I'll wait Yeah, I'm at the payphone on the Wallace Dead End. Hah, dead end. Got a body buried in the crete. Hah. No I won't leave.  I know you think I'm done but one day old guy, one day.:

Its a confused mix of what he said, what he thought, and him repeating in his mind some of what his boss said to him.

He hangs up, and curzes.  Some of the curses stand out as odd...'By Hecate's tangled hairs' and 'To Hades with the lot of them', and 'Loki give me strength to send these dimwits to hang on the tree, maybe then they'd realize how valuable I am.'  There's also more traditionally Christian and simply vulgar cursing.

The street seems to have darkened.

   So much for my not working the DeWitt homicide.  This bozo was a small fish in a big pond.  I understand that some people use small fish as bait to catch bigger ones.  It seems like a good technique to me.

   I made sure my Glock was ready to go, then stepped out from behind the shrubbery and smiled.  "Hi!  You're name is Deck, right?  I've seen you around.  They say you're the person to see to get something done around here.  Are they right?"

He literally jumps into the air, looks, and then calms down.  He smooths his hair back, and readjusts his jacket.

"Yeah, I'm the Man. Just last week went to Old Man Martini's mansion for Sunday dinner.  So, uh, like what's your problem?  Your boyfriend cheating on you, and needs a good beating? Got some hot rocks you stole you need fenced? You want some Ruby to get you high? How can Deck the Man help you out, for a fee, of course."

He's relaxed, a bit, but you can still tell he's nerved about the coming visit from his boss.

   As a P.I., I get to see people when they're having some of the worst times of their lives.  Too many of those times involved drugs.  I've seen the results when a husband and father puts everything his family owns up his nose as white powder.  I've found a missing kid dead with the needle still in his arm in a building even the rats and roaches abandoned as unsafe.  I've seen the ones standing on a street corner hoping to trade their bodies for a taste of something to make the pain go away for just a little while.  I'm a P.I. and my anti-drug policy isn't "Just Say No!"

   I tried for the hype stutter in my voice as I hugged my arms around my torso and bent my knees slightly.  "Yeah..  Ruby...  I'm really hurting...  Do you have it here?"  The pose also just happened to put my right hand on my Glock.

He grins.  Its shark-like.

"As it happens, I have two vials."  He pulls out a thin metal box from his jacket, and opens it to pull out an inch long plastic vial with a stopper cap.  It's red flakes or powder or something inside the tube.

"Ten pounds. And this is fresh." He pauses.  "You look hardcore enough to just swallow it, but otherwise there's a water fountain down the street."

He's really relaxed now.

   So that's what they call Ruby.  It doesn't look like much to sell your soul to get.  I kept the quiver in my voice.  "D-do you have any m-more....uhhh... for later?  I-I've got m-most of the money.  Maybe we can... work something out... p-please?"  One vial isn't anywhere close to being enough for what I have in mind.

He shakes his head.


"Sorry, I don't. I can get you more tommorrow, a lot more if you've got the cash." He looks unhappy to be adding this. "Or you could go to Clive on Harbor Road.  North end.  He's usually got a few dozen at least. Course, some of his ain't as fresh as mine."

He makes the trade, and then advises you to scoot.

   As he closes to make the trade, I fire off a couple of pain spikes at the little pussball of a drug dealer.  If he's still conscious, I'll hit the slime sucking worm with a couple more.  I don't want to leave a mark on him, but I want him down for the count.

   I really hate drug dealers.

It comes easy, and slam, slam, he's down on the ground moaning and weeping, and slam, he's out, and one more just to make sure he has a bad morning when he wakes up.

A four wheel car drives past the entrance to the short dead end, and then wheels back around.  It looks like someone missed their turn, someone who's not law abiding enough not to do a U turn in the middle of a street.

The car looks larger and more expensive than any you've seen so far.

   I take a moment to help myself to his pistol and his wallet.  The money in that wallet came from the misery of others.  I should be able to find a good use for it.  I'm taking his pistol because children shouldn't play with guns.  I tucked Drek's pistol in my waistband.  There's no way I'm using it without examining it first and maybe getting more ammunition for it.

   I was hoping his boss would take a little longer to get here, but here he is.  I start moving toward the pay phone as if I am going to make a call.

His knife in its sheath, a one edged thing four inches long, is just laying there next to him too, having fallen loose in  his struggles.

The car wheels in, and you're standing at the payphone already even before it got to the street.

It pulls up, and the driver gets out.  He's a tougher looking version of punk with more expensive clothes, but not much more so.  If the first is a mouse, then this is a rat.He opens the back door, and a bull-necked man with thick lips and an oddly shaped head of very large size gets out. He's dressed in very expensive clothing indeed, and if the others are a mouse and a rat, he's a wild boar.

   I snagged the knife, too.  I clipped it to my belt under my jacket.  I might need to peel an apple later on tonight, once I carefully washed the knife.

   I kicked my voice up a couple of notches.  "Are you his boss thank God you're here I was going to try to panhandle a couple of pounds from him and he told me he was waiting for his boss and to go away and he collapsed and I was going to call for help but I don't have any change and please help him please."  I made sure to frantically wave my arms about as I talked, even though it meant not having my Glock right at hand.

Rat and Boar come over.
"Probably been sampling his own stuff." Rat speculates.
"mmmph." Boar grunts.
As Boar gets close to you, all the hairs on your arms and neck stand up. He leans over Mouse, and studies him for a second.  One-handed, he pulls Mouse up, and tosses him on his shoulder.  Its an impressive feat of strength.  He glances at Rat.
"You...sure. She's...respectable."
Boar lays a hand on Rat's arm, and Rat winces as its tightened.
Rat smiles at you, as Boar takes Mouse to the car.
"Why don't you come with us. We don't carry....ah, small bills with us.  But we have some at ..."
"The penthouse." Boar's voice is thick, as if he's speaking through a mouthful of blood.