The shoemaker was indeed pleased when Mr. Hill strode in and demanded the services of a master corviser. I waited politely as he was sized, requiring a custom template. Given the need was so urgent, Mr. Hill bought two pairs, getting sized for a true custom pair and getting another pair wrapped and stitched right around his feet as he waited.
It was just money. Easy come, easy go.
The haberdasher was similar, not having anything in stock to fit Mr. Hill’s large cranium, but perfectly willing to make a temporary for Mr. Hill to wear to his meeting.
Then it was back to wandering around, picking out the sights and the buildings, and getting the lay of the place.
The roaring of boot jets followed a red and gold figure shooting by well overhead, drawing a lot of enthusiastic attention from those down below.
“He’s not using anti-grav,” Mr. Hill noted professionally.
“Power demands?” I hazarded. “The tech here is a generation or two behind, you know.” I scratched my head. “I read somewhere that they think he’s using some kind of near-perfect solar energy conversion, based on his refractory coating. That’s not enough to supply anti-grav continuously, although he might be able to do a gravvy pulse, and he probably uses pulses from his hands to control his flight.”
“Oh, right. Murican tech.” He dismissed the sight, completely inured to people flying around. “What’s he doing?”
I fished out his Vaccine phone from the Coast, and punched in for local news. The app hooked into the broadcast from the Tribal Consulate that courteously offered a broadcast service for those with the appropriate tech. “Ferry accident in the Hudson, I think? Stark Tower, where he lives, is over in the direction he came from. Avengers Mansion is set out at his old family estate to the north; more privacy and away from civilians. Even has a private landing field and everything.”
“I saw pics of that thing they fly. Looks like a flying whale. Did they forget to hire someone when they made it?” he asked me, pouring more salt on them.
I just smirked. “The Quinjet? Remember, it’s not a combat aircraft. It’s more like a private luxury plane for Powered. Been in a private jet? How much room you think it has compared to that tub?”
He thought about that. “So... Stark made himself and his buddies a comfy ride just to get around in?”
“With lots of room for additional cargo and modifications. Doesn’t sell it off to anyone, either.”
Mr. Hill rolled his eyes. “Billionaires...”
And their overly-intelligent sons who wanted to show up their dads.
==============
There were several casinos in Jersey. The Resort was the biggest, richest, and most pretentious of them, as well as firmly intertwined with at least three local crime families, who made sure it stayed profitable, frequent gamblers were encouraged to drop money, and deadbeats either paid up or were beat dead.
They were family-friendly in its own way, with the attached shopping areas and amusement areas and video game parlors for kids, complete with their own gambling games...
Gotta start them gambling addicts early, after all.
Of course, this was now the burgeoning of the Heroic Age, and Core training was a thing, as was Weird Science. Smart guys, mystics, psions, and all sorts of people always had a newer, better way to try to cheat or even just count cards more effectively.
Rich meant more than money now. It meant the ability to buy power, which meant the ability to tell the casinos to go stuff themselves, and the temptation to use that power to cheat.
Well, that was why I was here.
We didn’t drive there. I delivered us to their heliport for distinguished guests on a flying magical Card. The Mountain stepped off it onto the pad there, and the entire building trembled as he put his foot on it.
We’d been nice enough to call ahead. The men sent up to receive us all swallowed at the subtle display of power, and that really, really nice suit Mr. Hill was wearing really displayed the fact he was a big, BIG guy, and their imposing tough guy builds looked like little kids in front of him.
“M-Mr. Hill, this way,” the aide assigned to receive us said, faltering as Mr. Hill’s eyes darkened on him. He was a bit young for this role, which was a subtle way of establishing dominance. “I’m Sean O’Bannon. A pleasure to have you at the Resort, sir!” he added quickly.
Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!
“You aren’t Ligganto,” Mr. Hill stated grimly. “Your boss too busy to meet with me, O’Bannon?” he demanded, and the floor twitched again.
Mr. Hill’s voice could literally get inhumanly deep. Resonated right in the bones, it did. I waited silently behind him.
He knew how to deal with these kinds of people. Proper intimidation from someone who could literally bring the whole building down was a thing.
“N-no, sir. I think he just wanted to see how I could handle myself, Mr. Hill, sir,” the man said, clearly realizing that he was in way over his head.
Mr. Hill paused for a moment, as if thinking over a course of action that could result in a lot of damage, his hand clenching and knuckles cracking like rocks popping, making the three casino employees jump.
“I’ll overlook this once, O’Bannon. If you’re going to be my contact, then your bosses better make damn sure you have the authority to make decisions when dealing with me, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hill, sir!” he babbled, gesturing the bodyguards to hold the doors. They literally leapt to obey.
Grumbling like a car engine, Mr. Hill followed him.
With every step, the building trembled ever-so-slightly. I made sure not to smile as we were led inside.
------
Ligganto was older, in his forties, dyed his hair black, and looked like someone whose attitude had just been sharply readjusted. His office was sizable and posh, enough to satisfy the highbrows who might end up here talking to him, but also clean and precise, to meet the approval of the security team leads he inevitably had to deal with.
Feeling the footsteps of The Mountain approaching him was certainly enough to make a normal man falter.
That said, he was an old hand at dissembling, and greeted The Mountain warmly and with a strong handshake, no doubt wincing as just a tiny bit of inexorable pressure made it plain it felt like he was gripping a hand of stone. “Hill, good to see you back. Thought you were entertaining yourself out on the West Coast there, what with the stories coming back.”
“I travel a lot, Ligganto. I work in a lot of places and for a lot of people.” Which wasn’t a lie. He knew a lot of very powerful people, and a lot of normal people.
He was an earth-guy. He was, well, grounded.
The bodyguards were waved out as functionally useless. O’Bannon started to do the same, and was waved off to the side, seeing that I was standing there calmly.
“This is the Dealer, right? I am Michael Ligganto. I handle security for the Resort.” He didn’t know whether to offer me a hand, and I just partially inclined my head and body, no more.
“This is a business visit, Ligganto.” Mr. Hill gave me his hat, and I flicked a card up, hanging the hat on it in midair. Ligganto blinked at the casualness of the gesture, and moreso as The Mountain shrugged off his very sizable jacket, and I hung it in midair on a much-enlarged Card for him. “Let’s get down to business.”
“Sure, Hill,” the man said hastily, doubtless feeling a little overwhelmed and in new territory. Still, he was familiar with dealing with arrogant entitled people, and gave way with grace. “Surprised to get a call like that, that you were interested in working with the casinos, Hill.” He waved Hill to a chair, who just looked at them things sized for a normal man coolly.
I flicked up another card, a King of Diamonds, and it grew into a comfortable floating chair for him to sit in, while the other chairs silently slid out of the way via telekinetic hands. He sat down, and notably his chair was at the proper height for him, meaning he was still a lot higher than the security chief’s high-set chair.
Power games.
“My giving the Resort and other casinos a call was a courtesy, Ligganto, no more, no less. If all I wanted to do was set up a retainer, I could have done that over the phone.” Well, no, but yes. Always in person, since he’d be handling ‘sensitive’ collection matters. “Meeting in person meant there’s something more on the table. Before I begin, is there anything you want to bring up?”
He’d taken over command of the meeting, clearly establishing that he could walk at any moment, and this wasn’t overly important to himself, even as he handed off that control.
“I’ve talked to Bally’s, Caesars, the Nugget, and the others,” Ligganto replied quickly. “There’s some questioning your reputation and confidence that you can pull off a job like this, and if you’re going to stick around,” he said hesitantly.
“Huh.” That word carried so much heavy, dismissive weight that the chief paled despite himself. “Who the fuck do they have doing their background checks? I have never failed to deliver on a contract, even if it got me sent into orbit.” He held up a hand, and I fished one of his cigars out of his jacket, lit it with a flaming two of Hearts, and handed it to him. He chomped down on it as it burned very brightly, dropping no ash, and what he exhaled was popping with blue sparks. “Whether or not my employer succeeded at what they wanted to do, I delivered on my part of the job... and the number of people who can stop me from walking away when I do my job includes nobody in the East, except maybe this new Thor guy.
“And I don’t see a Norse god mucking about in a casino’s business. Do I need to give you some names on The Coast to call?”
Only Muricans called it the West Coast. To the rest of the world, it was ‘The Coast’. MAYBE ‘the Great Coast’.
Ligganto flushed. There was certainly organized crime on The Coast, but not old blood, and there were no mob casinos. The Tribes controlled the casinos with a special division, and monitored common gamblers, while catering to those who wanted to throw money around and enjoy the high tech and good climate.
Underground gambling was big out there, and private games outside Tribal control were good and easy money for The Compact.
“If you think it will stop them from whining about your fee, sure, Hill,” Ligganto conceded quickly, fully aware that reputation was everything in this business.
He gestured, and I snapped up a list of names and numbers, which I then spun off with a flick of my wrist, landing it directly in front of Ligganto perfectly as a sheet of paper with a faint Ace of Spades watermark. He looked at it, glanced at me, and set it carefully off to one side.
“This comes through, your retainer shouldn’t be a problem, and we can negotiate on other settlements,” he agreed, and he glanced at me again. “Now, I understand you want to set up a room for your little lady here to deal.”
Mr. Hill reached up to take out his cigar. “No. You want me to set her up here, and not at the Nugget or Caesars or one of the others. I’m merely talking to you first, because I like this place.”