sunnydalealum | (no subject)

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Somewhere in Manhattan
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
7:20pm

It's been four days. Long enough lead time for the word to have gotten out some other way; and if that makes his information potentially less valuable, it also betters the odds that they won't trace the leak back to him, if they're feeling so inclined.

Fitz opens the prepaid one-use cellphone, and dials a certain unlisted number.

"Fitz," he says into the mouthpiece, after a moment. "I've got something you wanna know."

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There's the rasp of something on the other end (something not necessarily made of fabric, or hair, or anything even remotely mundane) adding a crisp quality to the static, filtering the disembodied voice.

It's raspy, dark and murmuring, and it holds more than a touch of disinterest. "Name your price, Gerald."

This is not so much a request, as a demand.

He can't suppress the annoyed grimace (that stupid nickname again), but he manages to keep it out of his voice. "It's in two pieces. Let's say ... oh, twelve hundred for either, or two thousand even for both, as a special discount."

"Special discount? How very kind of you to consider my finances." The sneer is virtually tangible, turning the voice a brittle, icy, living thing. "...I know you wouldn't dream of wasting my time."

The threat should be as clear as crystal without turning things into a drawing contest. It had better be good, or Fitz will pay very, very dearly.

"Two thousand."

"Worth it," Fitz says right back; he worked for the bastard long enough to recognize the words as a flat question rather than an agreement.

And he knows better than to make the mistake of saying trust me.

"Someone in town is asking about one of your Valued Patrons. That's for free. The names are for sale. Who's asking and who they're asking about."

There's a moment of silence on the other end, a pause used for both ever so slightly dramatic purposes and afterthought.

"All right." If there's one thing Fitz should know about his former employer, it's just how highly he values his patrons and their personal integrity.

"If it checks out, you'll get your money."

Oh, Fitz knows it; it's what got him fired and stuck with the geas. That's exactly why he knows this information is worth something.

"The patron's Joe. The Sulcar. Who's asking is a human named Wells and a vamp named Spike. They're with an outfit calls itself Angel Investigations."

There's silence on the other end. Dark and brittle, like the voice just a moment ago, it could snap at any second.

But then, it simply doesn't. "You didn't tell them anything."

A short, bitter laugh. "What could I tell them? You got your money's worth on the geas, boss."

Unseen by Fitz, his former boss's lips curl, thin and dark over his teeth, pearly white and just a tad too sharp to pass for human. Two-timing, conniving, slimy little lying smear on the wall. He'd love to be there when that day comes to the low-life on the other end. He'd just relish in it.

"You know the drill, Fitz."

"Okay, yeah." No wisecracks or side comments, not even the aggrieved sigh he'd really like to give vent to at this juncture. The nicknames his ex-boss is so fond of might be irritating as all hell, but when he stops using them, that's when you gotta duck and cover.

He knows the drill. He should know the drill, he's been screwed over by it before -- but this time he's played it straight, he's dealing on the level, he's got nothing to worry about. Right? Right.

A deep breath, and: "Row, row, row your boat, gently down the --"

He flicks his tongue against his teeth, because if that voice doesn't feel like nails on the back of his forehead, he doesn't know what that is.

"Stop. For the love of Pete, you're giving me a migraine."

He leans back in his high-backed armchair, lighting up a cigarette to take his mind off, well, everything about this entire 'conversation'.

"You'll get your money."

Click. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeee--

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