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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones everyone!)
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Caleb smiled, the expression genuine. "That sounds perfect. But I have to ask, can they follow instructions? And most importantly, can they be trusted to keep their mouths shut? My acquaintance... he values his privacy. He doesn't want the whole neighborhood knowing his business."
Ezra nodded his head vigorously. "Of course, Mr. McLaughlin. Don't worry about that. They're family men. If there's money involved, and honest work, they will keep their mouth shut. They'd do basically anything to feed their families as long as it's not criminal activities."
"No crime," Caleb assured him. "Just fixing up a roof, reinforcing some walls, maybe building a new bar. Honest sweat."
"Then they're your men," Ezra said proudly.
"Great. What are their names, and where do they live? I'll direct the man I owed the favor to his friends."
Ezra listed them off, counting on his fingers. "There's Isaac, he's the best carpenter I know. Then Booker, strong as an ox, good with stone. Jackson and Elijah, they can do just about anything else. Four men, all skilled, all reliable."
"And where can I find them?"
"They live in the better part of the slums," Ezra said. "Not far from the Doyle's Tavern, actually, well, maybe you don't know that place. It's a bit rough. But they're on Waverly Street, number forty two. A boarding house run by a widow named Mrs. Freeman."
"Write it down for me," Caleb said.
"One moment." Ezra ducked below the bar, rummaging around for a moment before resurfacing with a scrap of paper and a pencil stub. He scribbled down the names and a rough address. He slid the paper across the bar. "There you are, Mr. McLaughlin. Tell them Ezra sent you. They'll be glad for the work."
Caleb took it, reading the names. Isaac, Booker, Jackson, Elijah. Four men. Just enough for a crew, small enough to manage.
"I appreciate this, Ezra," Caleb said, pocketing the paper. "You've been a big help. I'll make sure they get paid fair. Truly. You're a good man."
Ezra ducked his head, a faint flush of pleasure on his dark cheeks. "Just happy to help, sir. And, well... it's good to see someone giving work to men who deserve it, instead of all the... other opportunities out there." His eyes flicked meaningfully toward the door, toward the city where Bronte's men and Cornwall's mercenaries were sharpening their knives.
"Those opportunities lead to early graves," Caleb said. "This is better."
"Yes, sir. Much better."
Caleb pushed a twenty dollar bills across the bar. "For the information. And for your trouble."
Ezra's eyes widened. "Mr. McLaughlin, that's too much—"
"Take it," Caleb said firmly. "Consider it a down payment on future discretion."
Ezra hesitated, then nodded, pocketing the coin. "Thank you, sir. I'll keep your confidence."
Caleb finished his water, tipped his hat to Ezra, and then turned around before making his way through the thinning crowd, nodding to a few late night revelers, and climbed the stairs to his room. He climbed to the second floor, the sounds of the saloon fading into a dull roar beneath the floorboards.
He unlocked his room and stepped inside, locking the door right tafter. It was quiet. He walked to the desk, lit the oil lamp, and sat down. He pulled out the piece of paper Ezra had given him and placed it next to the deed for Doyle's Tavern.
He began to think. He closed his eyes, his Builder Skill activating in his mind's eye. He visualized the tavern as it was, rotting wood, leaking roof, dirt floor, and began to overlay his design.
He wanted the tavern to be renovated into a much more respectable establishment, but it was a delicate balance. The tavern needed to feel cleaner, safer, but not gentrified. It couldn't attract the wealthy, it needed to serve the working poor of the slums, to become their place, their sanctuary.
Affordable drinks, decent food, fair treatment. In return, they would bring their secrets, their grievances, their overheard conversations. Information was the currency he truly sought.
'No,' Caleb thought. 'It needs to be a sanctuary, not a palace.'
He mentally sketched out the changes.
For the structure, fix the roof first. No more leaks. Reinforce the floorboards so they didn't creak or threaten to give way. Patch the walls to keep out the draft.
For the aesthetics, keep the wood, but sand it down and stain it. Make it look cared for, not expensive. Warm lighting, more lanterns, maybe a central hearth if the chimney could take it.
The bar would need a new counter. Made from some solid oak. Something a man could lean his troubles on.
He would also need better lighting, gas lamps, perhaps, but not too bright. Cleaner storage in the cellar. A small kitchen in the back to made some simple meals like some stew, bread, potatoes.
He didn't need to increase the cost of the drinks and meals being sold there. In fact, he could subsidize it. Sell a good, hearty stew for the price of a watery soup. Sell clean, non poisonous beer for the price of swill.
If he did that, the patrons, the people who lived in the slums, the dock workers, the labor workers, the low class denizens of Saint Denis, would flock to it. They would protect it. They would talk in it.
'And Doyle will be listening,' Caleb thought.
He leaned back in his chair, satisfied with the plan. The crew Ezra recommended sounded perfect. Hungry, skilled, and disconnected from the major players. He would approach them as an agent of the "new owner," keeping his own identity as the proprietor hidden even from them if possible, or at least swearing them to secrecy with a bonus.
He worked until his eyes grew heavy, the sketches piling up. Outside, the Bastille's noise faded to a murmur, then to silence. He set his pencil down, rolled his shoulders, and finally allowed himself to rest. He blew out the lamp and moved to the bed.
He lay down, staring at the ceiling. The day had been long. He had killed a specialist, manipulated a crime lord, bought a business, and assembled a construction crew.
Tomorrow, if Bronte hadn't sent someone to summon him, and he calculated that Bronte wouldn't summon him yet, not until the "intel" on the docks attack had time to marinate, he could go out and meet with Ezra's friends. He would hire them in Doyle's name, or perhaps under the guise of a property manager, and set them to work.
Caleb closed his eyes. The city was a machine, and he was slowly becoming the operator.
The next morning broke with the same humid oppression that defined Saint Denis, but Caleb woke with the clarity of purpose.
He dressed quickly, donning his usual gear but leaving the more conspicuous weaponry, the Pump Action shotgun, the Litchfield, in his room. He would be McLaughlin, the helpful fixer, visiting potential laborers on behalf of an anonymous client. No need to look like he was marching to war.
He descended the stairs, nodded to Ezra, and stepped out into the damp Saint Denis morning. The city was waking, merchants opening their shutters, street vendors calling out prices.
He mounted Morgan and guided her through the waking streets, down from the glittering heights of the commercial district, through the industrial sprawl, and finally into the slums.
Waverly Street was a slight improvement over the immediate vicinity of Doyle's Tavern. The buildings were still cramped, the air still carried the stench of the nearby tanneries, but the streets were cleaner, the faces less hollow.
The tenant houses near the rail yard were a step up from the shanties of the deep slums, but only just. They were brick, at least, and stood in neat, soot stained rows. Laundry hung from lines strung between buildings like surrender flags.
Number forty two was a narrow three story boarding house with faded green shutters. A sign by the door read FREEMAN'S LODGING - WEEKLY RATES.
Caleb dismounted from Morgan and knocked on the door marked with the number Ezra had written.
A moment later, the door opened. After a moment, the door was opened by an elderly Black woman with sharp, intelligent eyes and iron-gray hair pinned neatly beneath a clean white cap. She looked him up and down, taking in his quality coat, his polished boots, the revolver on his hip.
"Help you?" Her voice was wary but not afraid.
"Mrs. Freeman?" Caleb asked. "My name is McLaughlin. Ezra from the Bastille sent me. I'm looking for Isaac, Booker, Jackson, and Elijah. I have work for them."
Her eyes softened fractionally at the mention of Ezra. "The four of them are all good boys. Come in."
He stepped inside. The boarding house was modest but scrupulously clean, smelling of lye soap and bread. Mrs. Freeman led him to a small parlor and excused herself. A few minutes later, a men come.
A tall, broad shouldered Black man, wiping sawdust from his hands. He looked Caleb up and down, his eyes wary but not hostile. This had to be Isaac.
"Looking for me and my friends?" the man asked.
"Isaac?" Caleb asked.
"Who's asking?"
"Ezra sent me," Caleb said. "Said you and your friends were looking for work. Honest work."
The tension in Isaac's shoulders dropped instantly. "Ezra sent you? Then follow me."
CCaleb goes to follow Isaac, where they entered into a small room which was crowded but clean. Three other men were sitting around a small table, drinking coffee from tin cups. They looked up as Caleb entered.
"Gentlemen," Caleb said, removing his hat. "I have a job. It pays well, it pays cash, and it starts today."
He laid out the terms. They weren't working for him, he explained, but for the known Mr. Doyle who had been lucky and come into some money, which now he wanted to fix up his tavern. Caleb was just the facilitator he hired to look for some workers, who will built it and also buy the materials.
"Doyle's Tavern?" Booker, the one Ezra had called strong as an ox, frowned. "That rat trap?"
"It won't be a rat trap when you're done with it," Caleb said. "He wantes the roof fixed. He wanted the walls and the floors beautiful and also solid. He also wanted a new bar counter and shelf. And there's many more, where most importantly he want it done fast."
He placed two stack of bills on the table which was 200 dollars which was an advance of their pay, and around 1,000 dollars for the materials. "Can the four of you do it?"
The men looked at the money, then at each other. They smiled.
"When do we start?" Isaac asked.
"You can start right away, buy the materials first and grab your tools," Caleb said. "I'll wait for all of you at the tavern."
By noon, Doyle's Tavern was a hive of activity. The sound of hammers and saws replaced the usual silence of the slums.
Caleb stood in the corner, watching Isaac and his crew work with a speed and skill that justified Ezra's praise. Doyle was fluttering about, looking terrified and ecstatic all at once, bringing water to the workers and occasionally glancing at Caleb for approval.
Caleb was in his element. He wasn't just building a bar, he was building a network.
As he watched Jackson measure a plank for the new floor, Caleb's mind drifted to the bigger picture. Bronte was waiting for a strike that wouldn't come. Cornwall was stewing in his mansion, wondering where his specialist was.
And Caleb? Caleb was digging in. The renovation would take a few days. In that time, he would solidify his cover, establish the tavern's new protocols, and prepare for the inevitable summons from Bronte. But for now, the sound of a hammer striking a nail was the only music he needed.
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Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 2)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 2)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 4)
- Bow (Lvl 3)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 4)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 3)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl 3)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 1)
- Leadership (Lvl 1)
Money: 3,350 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 253,192 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 70 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, & 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern
Bank: -