The Evil That Men Do

[Guest]

"For a man to live and operate in civilised society he's got to have a set of rules. Without rules, you're a nobody. You're gangland scum. You're trash. You're nothing better than dirt on a tramp's boot.

Rules are what our society thrives upon, and most people give themselves many and freely break some, but I only have five: and those five are what I stick to, and what I recommend others to stick to.

One: Stay detached. A job's a job.
Two: Pay up when the time comes to. If not, be prepared to deal with the consequences.
Three: If you say you're going to do something, you do it.
Four: Don't hurt people who don't deserve it. Unless you're getting paid to.
Five: And avoid like the fucking plague the loud, wannabe gangsters who are in it for the fame and the glory. They attract attention. Attention attracts trouble.

These are my rules. What are yours?"

*****

THE DEAD MULE
EAST LONDON
CRETA
MONDAY, 25TH MARCH
7:32 PM

"Glenfiddich. Neat." Ice was bad. Ice broke down an old, classy scotch, it weakened it and turned it from a fine liquor into piss in just a moment. Now, some people liked their scotch poured over ice, but when more than ten years - not counting delivery time or for how long that bottle's been on the shelf - have gone into cask-maturing and fermenting this liquor just so it can reach the side of your throat and the pit of your stomach... well, to the man in black, above all else, it just seemed disrespectful to taint such a golden and prime experience by essentially watering it down over time.

The bartender lethargically polishing a pint glass inclined his head as his ominous, mysterious customer slid another five dollar note over the table. Something struck him about this man. Something took him by surprise, made him raise an eyebrow when the suited individual wasn't looking and scan him up and down. The bartender himself liked to think that after this long making and serving drinks, he knew people, and he knew how to read them quickly for all the time he was acquainted with them; every day new faces stumbled into this bar, which wasn't the most popular on the street, but above everyone else in the Dead Mule, he was the one who had to smile and try to socialise in spite of the characters of some who ventured in here "You want ice with that?"

"Neat means neat." Opalescent turquoise eyes shone beneath a black fringe. The dim yellow light in the bar was glancing from strands of his polished, glistening hair, which bore almost a natural waxed and refined look, with an air of simple purity and nature around it, as if he hadn't wasted a second touching it over before he left the door. Above all else, it just looked... spectacularly regular. In this light, it almost bore a dark navy tint, which drew more than a few stares, but as the suited man turned his head it became apparent that this was just a visual phenomenon to onlookers around.

"Oh. My bad. Sorry." Still apprehensive, the man brushed away the suited man's sneering and set down his glass and cloth. With that, he turned back to the bar, shaking his head a touch, and twirled a measure glass, filling it up with the requested golden liquid. Scanning the man again, he was unsure of from where, or why, but just knew he'd seen him before. The bartender shrugged and passed the drink across.

The man sat on the stool took it in a single fluid motion and spun halfway around on the seat, gesturing with his head very gently to the money on the table, sipping once at the drink. The bartender hadn't fucked it up, it seemed, as the cool whiskey drifted down his throat with little resistance, warming and tingling the whole time it followed down. "Keep the change." The black-suited individual murmured, aware of the barkeep's surveillance, and turned his head on a pivot to do something of his own.

Monday night. The bar was relatively dead. Three muttering younger patrons on a table by the window, and an elderly, sombre, wizened old man sipping at a pint of bitter at the table with a wispy white-specked moustache and a receding hairline in his thickened, stiff tan leather jacket. The man in the suit was wearing nothing over his jacket, for upon entry he had shed his black longcoat and hung it across the base of the stool, careful not to crease the collar.

This was... perfect.

Optimal for the man in black's business in this venue tonight. Though thus far to all else the suit had been his identity; and through either charisma or deflection, that's how he wanted to keep it to be. Once transient identities and falsities began to pass his lips, things could get... unnecessarily complex. But he knew who he was - just who he was, for that matter. The son of one of Creta's most revered and feared crime idols. A lost legacy somewhere in a sea of Armani suits and Omega watches. Calvin J. Knox. The criminal specialist, who sold his skills to the highest bidder. Failure wasn't an option in this business, but luckily success was on the market with near enough to a one hundred percent consistency rate.

If things went wrong, he improvised. If he found an obstacle, he swerved around it or cut through it. He could be a getaway driver one day and a bank robber the next. From petrolhead to thief. Fraudster to assassin. Arsonist to grifter. Escape artist to master strategist. Muscle to courier. Whether it was through bullet, blade, or white-hot wit he got the job done, and had the intelligence to back all of these claims up. He'd been in the business for five years now and in the Cretan underworld knew that his name held reputation and weight. Perhaps he wasn't a titan like the infamous Dresden twins, his late father and uncle, and even the Falzone family, but he was notorious enough.

With notoriety, problems came hand in hand. Calvin much preferred subtlety. With that, he finished up the last of his drink and turned back with a sigh, staring halfheartedly out of the window into the moonlit spring sky. The equinox had just past. The days were getting longer, the skies clearer, the weather... less bitter. It was a quaint March night. For most it would be a shame to be working so late in such a desirable and reasonable environment when one could be enjoying life's simpler pleasures.

For Calvin, however... business and pleasure had more of a crossover.

[William Tuck]

Closing time. Not a very fun time, particularly, but it was good enough. Delicately pulling the wooden cover back over the ivory keys, he stood from his seat, and, bidding his adieus, left the bar. It was a well-honored tradition, though, that whenever he was capable of it, he walk aimlessly, in search of another bar, one that wasn't yet closed. He could mix his own drinks, sure, but a drink wasn't the same as a bar. It was the atmosphere, partly. He preferred a quiet bar, not too much of a dive, but not a disco trying to pass for a bar either. And as he roamed the streets, he though he'd found it. Opening the door of The Dead Mule, with such a charming name as that, William found it did have a bit of rugged charm to it. And as a man who grew up in Florida, he was quite fond of that rugged charm. It was classy in its own way.

Stepping up to the bar, he grabbed a stool near a sharply dressed man in black, not particularly noticing him. He was pretty busy, mentally, actually, and hardly noticed the bartender ask what he wanted. "Huh? Oh, yeah, uh... Your finest wine? Red wine, that is." The bartender shook his head, however, to William's dismay. "Don't serve wine here. Want anything else?" Well, as a bartender, William was appalled, and wanted to strangle the man. What good bar didn't serve wine!? But the gentleman in him decided against it, instead briefly frowning, and shutting his eyes momentarily, brushing it off. "Fine. Dirty martini, two parts Jack. Two to start off." Thankfully, the barkeep understood that order, and soon enough, the drinks were in front of him.

When he didn't order wine, it was a dirty martini. Why? Well,it was a good drink, simply enough. A nice twist on a classic; two ounces of olive juice, two ounces of gin, half an ounce bitters, garnished with an olive. And in his case, a bit of Jack Daniels, man's best friend. Let's see a dog calm a man's nerves half as well as a shot, or bottle, of whiskey. And nerve-calming it was; as he took a sip of his first drink, he retrieved from his pocket a trio of files on one Serpent Killer; the name given to an assassin who'd killed three men in West London. He was assigned to find the guy, but so far, no leads. The victims were all killed with piano wire, he noted; HIS SCHTICK, NOT A SERIAL KILLER'S! HE WAS THE PIANO WIRE ALCHEMIST, FOR PETE'S SAKE. WHO WAS PETE ANYWAYS, AND WHY DO PEOPLE CARE ABOUT HIS RICE WINE!? On the bright side if he didn't find the guy, he wouldn't be the first to fail miserably. IF HE DID, THOUGH. HE'D BE THE FIRST TO SUCCEED SUCCESSFULLY!~

As he finished glancing over the papers, he returned them to his pocket, and in doing so, unwittingly knocked his glass off the table, drenching the suited man's shoe in olive juice, whiskey, and gin. Ahhh crap. Blinking wide-eyed, he looked at it kinda stupidly for a minute, before realizing he had on REALLY nice shoes, and he'd just dumped his drink on them. "AHHH, I'M AN IDIOT. So sorry, sir, my elbow bumped the glass, and I'll uh, clean that up now!" Quickly, he scanned the area for napkins, taking one from the guy at the table behind him, who'd ran off the the bathroom, to try and hit the toilet, rather than ruining the barroom floor. Kneeling down beside his stool, he quickly scrubbed at the guy's shoe, before tossing the soiled napkin into an ash tray. Putting a hand behind his head, he gave a nervous grin. "Eheh, really sorry about that... William Tuck, by the way. Those shoes are pretty nice, or erm... Well, were, until I dumped my martini on them, like the moron I am... Eheh." Yeah... This seemed kinda awkward...

[Guest]

And just as things were settling, a sixth patron entered. Suit-clad, distinctively... cheerful. Calvin grimaced. He hated cheer without any good reason. Pointless exuberance. It frustrated him. "Fine. Dirty martini, two parts Jack. Two to start off." Ugh. Tampa Bay accent. Cheerful and from Florida. The criminal's grimace turned swiftly into a snarl. Things were only getting worse. The barman swiftly made the drink, somewhat more cheerful when dealing with the bar's fresh addition than he, as Calvin sipped at his Glenfiddich, sighing as the cold liquid seared its way down his throat.

His gaze fell upon the next window along to the one he'd been staring from as he regarded his beautiful dark steed sat outside; she was certainly a beauty, the Jaguar. 1965 E-Type. His father and uncle had both had a penchants for old Cretan cars; having grown up with them, it was only natural they'd appreciate Mustangs, old Dodges, Jaguars, Bentleys, Rolls-Royces... even the creme de la creme, the Aston Martin. Jacob, infact, was particularly notorious for having an expansive collection.

The Jaguar was one of his most prized possessions; speaking of which, Calvin's stare flicked down to the suitcase lying against the bar. His contingency plan and last resort; two separate three-digit numerical combinations to unlock each lock, containing what was (relatively) heavy artillery, for one who valued subtlety so heavily. But, thankfully, the professional had a hunch - grinning as he remembered this - that they would be unnecessary for tonight's affairs.

And things were going so well until he felt a spray of cold liquid across his face and the loud clang of a glass against the bar rang out. A spatter of olive juice, gin and Jack Daniels against his freshly-polished pointed dress shoes, and the fall like raindrops against the surface of his reinforced case. Instinctively, Calvin leapt up and reacted to the noise like any trained combatant, ready to draw a weapon sheathed at his side, but realised soon enough that it was just a spilled drink, and moved his hand from his jacket pocket with a sigh.

Staring down at his shoes he shook his head, cursed, and looked at the culprit. The bar's newest patron. Ice hung in his glare, cooling the air around the pair of them as he began to ramble, crouching and wiping Calvin's shoes for him. "AHHH, FGGH FHGHF CLEK. So sorry, sir, my elbow bumped the glass, and I'll uh, clean that up now!" The first utterance came in what was gibberish to the suited individual, but the rest in common Cretan, with that Floridian drawl hanging beneath it.

"Damn right you will," He murmured, sitting back down as the pianist finished polishing his shoes, turning back to his glass and seemingly unfazed by the man's rubbings. Thankfully it didn't detract from the footwear's seeming lustre, dried polish giving it a glistening sheen that lasted. "Be quick about it, too, or you'll be paying for them." And not in cash...

"Eheh, really sorry about that... William Tuck, by the way. Those shoes are pretty nice, or erm... Well, were, until I dumped my martini on them, like the moron I am... Eheh." Calvin blinked. Ruin another man's shoes and then try and break the ice? Really? Either this guy - creases in his face testament that he was far older than the professional - was more stupid than he looked, or getting increasingly brave with every passing moment. At this point, normally the criminal would have responded with some sort of blade to the esophagus; but as irritating as he was, the man, scrawny frame and all, possessed some form of curious air around him that had dissuaded the suit-clad man thus far. His intrigue had been piqued more than his irritation, and thus he would let things slide for now.

"James Benjamin." Calvin replied coldly, noticing as the bartender took note. Quickly he remembered an old saying that his father used to drill into him; "never trust a man with two first names". A smile curled at the corner of his mouth for a split-second as he tipped back the last of the Glenfiddich and slid the empty glass over the bar, tapping the varnished wood twice. They'd do well not to trust him. "And, yes, you're definitely giving yourself the air of a moron, mate," The ironic emphasis hung heavy over the term of endearment, almost spat with poison in the professional's mouth. "That is, until you give me any reason to think otherwise." He was curious; but that natural charisma hung under the cold words and stern glances; thus far the tone was semi-colloquial. Happy. And he was just giving this... William man something of a conversational challenge to deal with.

[Csilla Angelis]

{BUMP}

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