Milton sits at a table in the back of Morton's The Steakhouse, a favored establishment of politicians, lobbyists, and their financial paymasters in Sacramento. One of those places where evil happens everyday and gets called "good." Where power flows between finely appointed tables like an invisible lubricant. Where the public interest is sold off in lots, big and small, to those who set the proper price and pay in the proper currency.
In other words: Milton's natural habitat.
The Lord waits with a glass of water and menu set before him. He has touched neither, though he's forced his blood to bring life to his dead flesh and to his digestive tract. He will be able to eat and drink tonight, which is a good thing, because he's meeting one John Conley. And John Conley likes to eat and drink.
As if on cue, a voice booms across the restaurant. It is colored with an unmistakable Bostonian accent, dropped R's and all.
"Milton Northbridge! Milt!"
Milton trains his attention to the approaching figure. John Conley, larger than life. Radiating joviality, appetite, greed. It makes Milton sick to look at him, but instead of retching he smiles and stands. "John, so good to see you."
The Lord holds out a hand to shake. Conley grabs him by the arm and pulls him in for a hug. Milton is visibly uncomfortable, but John does not seem to notice. He releases the accountant and looks him up and down. "Milton, you asshole. You look great. What's it been, five years? And not one gray." He makes a show of checking the top of Milton's head.
"Very funny, John. You know I dye it." A lie. "Please sit," Milton gestures at the chair across from him. When Conley sits, the Lord follows suit.
A waiter appears and before Milton can speak, John's already talking: "Two Tomahawk Rib Eyes, a bottle of 16 year-old Abelour, and two glasses." He looks to Milton and winks. It is clear that Conley is going to get his money's worth. And that Milton will be retching up hundreds of dollars in meat and single-malt before the night is over.
The waiter takes their menus and departs. John leans in, conspiratorially, "So, what's the word, Milt. You said you had a tip for me."
At least Conley is direct. No foreplay, no niceties, right to it. That's because John, despite his jolly exterior, is a killer. Financially speaking. He knows all the players in town and he's always looking for an angle.
Milton smiles, sits back, gives Conley a measured look: "Well, more of a warning than a tip. You see, I had a recent encounter with a possible client. It didn't work out," he shrugs, "you know how it goes..."
John nods, eager for the whole story. Milton is about to continue when their scotch arrives. Conley is delighted. "Let me pour, let me pour," he insists, like a giant, over-eager child. Several fingers of the golden liquid is measured out into each glass. One is passed to Milton.
The Lord drinks deeply. It tastes of ash. Dirt and ash. It tastes of death. Milton smiles around the flavor and raises his glass, "To you, John. And to Boston."
Conley raises his glass in turn, clearly pleased with the Scotch and the mention of their mutual hometown, "To the greatest city on earth." He takes another heady draught. "Okay, tell me more..." And Milton does. Careful, of course, to sanitize the context.
The night wears on. The steaks arrive. Huge, bloody things. Though not as rare as Milton would like. More Scotch is consumed. It all tastes like cold embers from last-night's cook fire to Milton. He hates it. Can't wait to expunge the whole lot from himself in one bloody rush.
By the time the meal's ended, John looks full and more than a little drunk. Satisfied. The check comes and he slides it across the table to Milton.
"Okay, Milt. Let me tell you what I hear. You don't like this woman. Can't stand her. And you want to make her life a little difficult. That about right? And if she comes on back to you, chastened and ready to do business, that would be a very sweet thing indeed." As usual, John has cut through the fat. Right to the meat of the matter. Milton had tried to make things appear as if he were concerned about the legality of Quinn's proposed restructuring, but Conley was too smart to fall for that.
"You are correct," Milton says, wiping his face primly with his napkin. "Yes."
John smiles and a bit of the malignity beneath his jovial exterior becomes apparent. This is the part of Conley that Milton most admires: his utter heartlessness.
"Well, I think I could help out an old friend. Glad to have your back on this. I'll make some calls. See if we can't make things a touch more unpleasant." A pause, "But I can't make any promises. If the deal is too sweet..." He shrugs and Milton understands. Money is money.
"Of course, John. Of course. Any help is appreciated."
Milton removes his wallet from his jacket pocket and prepares to pay the bill.
| 2021-05-03 10:53:28
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Milton rolls 9 to Manip + Persuasion + Allies + Status (10 Again)
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9, 4, 4, 9, 7, 7, 6, 5, 7
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2 successes
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Milton is attempting to hinder Quinn's financial dealings, given their failed business deal
found here. I am leaving this thread open for now should
Seryna
need to add anything.
Presence
Intelligence
Status, Allies
2 successes
Draft this Post
