A Flat Circle - Roland

[Grey]

During the day, Vegas isn't a bad place to do a deal. It's not much quieter, but it's quieter, and the people you see are often as eager to go unseen as anything else. No one asks questions. No one thinks twice. Like a coin in a vault, anyone disappears into the seething mass of humanity as it nurses hangovers and plays one last hand.


During the night, though, you come out here. The city is a neon explosion miles south, painting the sky in sick colours. You can barely see the stars, even on this patch of dusty road so far away.


This was the deal: Patchy gives you the guns at a reduced price. You come out here to sell them to the Mexicans at a 10% markup (not that they'd know). You then drive back to the city and sell their license plate numbers to a known snitch via dead-drop. Patchy says she'll have the guns out of evidence lockup within a month to sell to someone else.


Just you and the desert and your car, right now. The buyers should be here soon.

 

[JayTee]

Leaning against the side of his car, Roland took a swig from his hip flask before stowing it and going though a last minute check of all of the essentials. His guns were loaded incase of trouble, his armor was carefully hidden. The goods were secure, and were triple checked against the list he had made to ensure nothing was missing or damaged.


Everything seemed like it was in perfect shape for another illegal transaction. Which was good, because he felt like burning some money at the blackjack table this weekend. The life of a contractor was constant work, and this job would hopefully be enough for him to take a short vacation.

 

[Grey]

A pickup, a van, and a lovingly restored old mustang rumble out of the night towards you. They're just distant lights, for the longest time, and as the approach... you see the mustang first.


You see the confederate flag on the hood when it's too late to back out.

 

[JayTee]

Roland silently thanked the free speech laws of his country when he saw the flag. The fact that people could fly a confederate flag or wear a nazi symbol on their arm without legal repercussion made it so much easier for him to identify and avoid people like that during his personal time.


Sadly, he didn't have much choice when he was on the clock. A job was a job, and someone in his profession fed or starved on their reliability. Steeling himself for the encounter with the lesser dregs of humanity, Roland waited patiently for the driver to pull up and the passengers to disembark.

 

[Grey]

Mexicans, Patchy said.


It does not elude you that these new customers are certainly late.


They park in a loose semi-circle, almost blinding you with their lights. Two guys exit the van, one steps from the mustang. Big motherfuckers, all three of them. Shaven heads, mostly flannel shirts and jeans. Guy from the car looks to be in charge, and has a Nazi eagle tattooed on his shoulder.


"You the man with the guns?" he asks, folding meaty arms. Accent isn't local.


You become aware of a muffled sobbing from behind the cars. "P-padre nuestro... que, que estás en los c-cielos..."

 

[JayTee]

Oh, right. Roland had forgotten about that. He was supposed to be meeting WITH the Mexicans, not meeting people with A Mexican. Whoops.


Grateful that he had his gun in his back pocket, just in case, Roland flashed them his best smile, hoping to avoid hostilities. "Yes sir indeed." He said radiating positivity. "Roland's the name, to who am I speaking to at the moment?"

Spoiler

Presence 2 + Persuasion 3 + 1 (friendly rapport)


[dice]21235[/dice]


I'm doomed.

 

[Grey]

The leader frowns.


"You wearin' a wire, smart guy?"

 

[JayTee]

Okay, positivity wasn't going to be getting him anywhere. Time to be polite, professional and plan on how to murder all of them should things get bad.


"Sir, I'm just a middle man. It's my job to be polite to potential costumers. You clearly have business with me, how can I help you?" He said, keeping his tone neutral.

 

[Grey]

"Guns," he says simply. "We were told you have automatics that're hard to trace, and we're willin' to pay you fer 'em."


They don't move much. Watchful. Might be expecting a trap.

 

[JayTee]

Roland frowned internally. The guns were meant to go to the mexicans, but from the looks of it, these folks had beaten his would be clients to the punch. Literally, judging by the state of the poor man in the back of the truck.


Despite all this, the plan seemed more or less unchanged. Sell the guns, report the plates, and laugh all the way to the bank. Patchy might be concerned that the clientele was not who they were supposed to be, but he didn't have many other options of he wanted to make a sale.


"Well sir, you've come to the right place." He said.

 

[Grey]

"Good," he says, and one of the other goons throws a duffle bag - looks military, in fact - at your feet. "Twenty five grand," the leader adds, pointing. "We'll take the weapons."


He doesn't sound open to negotiation, and you guess he has one of those back holsters, just above the waist of his jeans. Too calm not be armed.

 

[JayTee]

It took Roland everything he had not to start grinning like a child who had just gotten his christmas presents early. "Well, I suppose that'll the best offer I'm likely to get since my previous client seems to have... prior arrangements." He said delicately.


"Tell you what." He said, an idea striking him. "To show there's no hard feelings, how about you give me your contact information, and after I smooth this over with my boss I can try to set you up with a steady supply of ammunition, on the cheap."

 

[Grey]

"Yeah?" He looks to his crew; nods all round. Not much for talking. "Yeah. That sounds good."


His men start unloading the weapons, checking them casually - but it tells you most of them have never held one before.


"You got anything else, Mr. Salesman?" The boss asks, stepping closer, toeing the sand and then scratching his nose.

 

[JayTee]

"Nothing on me at the moment. You bought everything I had." He said, watching them bungle the weapons. Thank god they weren't loaded, otherwise one of them might have shot themselves by now. He reached in to his jacket (slowly, to avoid spooking them) and pulled out one of his disposable cell phone. "If I could just get your name and number, I'll be in contact with you in a few days to get you that ammo." He said.

 

[Grey]

He gives you the name Joseph, and accompanying number.


"You're alright, Salesman-"


"Boss, look!"


Lights on the road, moving fast. Worse is the helicopter not far behind.

 

[JayTee]

Roland was already moving by the time he saw the lights. "Welp, pleasure doing business with you gentlemen, but I think that's our cue to leave." Roland said, tossing the money in his car. "Split up if you can, make them divide their efforts." He said, getting in the vehicle and starting it up. If he was lucky, whoever was coming over the hill would pursue Josephine his crew, letting him slip away unnoticed.

 

[Grey]

Lucky you - they don't split up until it's almost too late, the mustang speeding desperately into the desert.


All you had to do was get a way out in the wasteland, turn off the engine, and wait five minutes.

 

[JayTee]

Allowing himself a moment to enjoy the feeling of a successful getaway, Roland pull out one of his disposable phones and called Patchy with the news.

 

[Grey]

"Yeah?"


Patchy has never smoked a day in her life, but she sounds like the bastard daughter of Tom Waits anyway.


"That better be Roland."

 

[JayTee]

"It's me, Patchy. I have good news and bad news about the sale." He said, going in to detail about what had happened, while continuing to use obtuse language to hide the fact that he had done something illicit. "On the one hand, we made a lot more money than we were expecting, although our original client might not be too happy with us. But they don't seem to be in a position to complain."

 

[Grey]

Patchy sighs, heavily.


"Get your ass down here, then, and tell me what the fuck happened. You know the place."


You do. The Hourglass Club. Patchy sounded agitated, though, and there wasn't the usual drone of music in the background.

 

[JayTee]

Signing and resigning himself to a potentially sour meeting, Roland went inside the Hourglass club expecting to get chewed out. On the drive over, he had gone over what had happened in his head more than once, to get his story straight and make sure to try and present it in a way that Patchy would find appealing.

 

[Grey]

The Hourglass is an old joint, rebranded time and again, changing hands every few years, never really doing better than keeping head above water. A golden hourglass full of gold-painted beads looms over the front doors, and the music is low. You hear when they opened, that thing was full of real gold dust.


You've only really met Patchy out and about before. Sure, you know she operates from here, but you've never had to meet her here. Not the safest, afterall.


You're shown through the Alice In Wonderland themed main floor to the offices. Looks like the walls were knocked through to give Patchy plenty of space.


And there she is - rail thin, dark skinned, a tailored gray suit that makes her look like a corporate scarecrow. You're used to something more casual. The expanded office is even weirder - she sits at a plastic-looking modern desk with two computer monitors and a stack of paper, and behind her the entire wall is covered in corkboard.


Photos, notes, names. A complex tangle of coloured threads links them all.


A couple of guys in shirts and ties sit at another, smaller table a few feet to her left, hurriedly typing.


Patchy exhales a stream of smoke. She smiles like she should be lurking in a swamp, waiting to rip someone's leg off.


"Roland. Glad you could make it," she draws on her cigar. "What the fuck happened?"

 

[JayTee]

"It's a hell of a story." Roland said, before going in to detail. "I was there like we agreed, with the product as planned, waiting for the Mexicans. Then all of a sudden a bunch of redneck neonazis show up with the client tied up in the back begging for mercy." He said.


"The rednecks demanded to look at the merchandise, and offered to buy it for more than double what the original agreed upon free was." He continued. "Given the circumstances, it was either agree to the new deal or walk away and possibly risk... a failure of negotiations. So I took the initiative and agreed to the new deal."


"Then the establishment showed up, and we all had to split, but not before I managed to get the money." He finished.


"All things considered I think we came out ahead. We may need to smooth things over with the Mexicans, but given the circumstances and the extra windfall, I don't imagine it being too difficult."

 

[Grey]

Patchy exhales, hand going to her forehead as she sits behind her desk.


"Sure, sure. You realize how fucked this is, right?" She gestures at the mass of string and notes behind her. "See, here's the deal - CIA runs eighty percent of heroin and cocaine traffic, right? You screw with their distribution and they'll screw you. The ATF runs half the guns, allegedly to track them to cartel instead of just mules. As long as the guns stay in the cartels, it's an acceptable loss to the war on drugs and the CIA stays on top without directly implicating themselves."


She inhales deeply, blows a stream of smoke into the cool air.


"Neo-nazis always demand an FBI response; terror management guidelines. Which means it becomes a federal investigation and I can't get those guns back - with the extra you made, I can live with that - but it also means one of the last genuine arms of the law will be reaching for us."