Well, I don't know why you want it, but here it is... :)

- Leigh Ann / Marco / Megan / etc.

=======================

Date:  Tuesday, January 16, 1996
Place:  Regan Hope Project

---- Recall start ----
Regan Hope Project(#3662RAJ)
This barn of a room with eggshell blue walls has been divided up into several 
   different areas. In the east end are several apartments formed by carpeted 
   walls, similar to those found in office buildings. In the centre is a day 
   care/play area walled off by a two-foot fence. Off to the west are 
   apartments similar to the ones in the east, but much larger. There is a 
   large painting on the floor, an intricately-painted magpie.
There are large double doors set in the south wall to allow access to Regan 
   Avenue. There is a smaller door off to the left of them.(+view alert)

Buick is not immediately visible. Whitey sits at the desk with a Steven King 
   novel.

Whitey's desc:
Long, black, almost ebony hair hides at least one of her fiery eyes, but the 
   other watches you cautiously. Most everything about her is dark -- black 
   Tshirt, battered denim trousers and jacket, olive skin -- except for her 
   bright white Converse High Tops.

Marco walks in with his coat loose so that his clothes are visible under the 
   overcoat, his hands loosely in his pockets. He approaches Whitey with a 
   pleasent grin. "Hello, I'm looking for Buick? I've heard I could find him 
   here."

Whitey looks up and smiles. "Good evening. Um. I'd be happy to have him come 
   to the desk. Is he... expecting you?"

Marco shakes his head just enough to get the negation across. "No, I don't 
   think he is. I figured I'd just drop by, and see if he was in. I'd 
   appreciate it if you could tell him Marco DeLuca was here to see him."

Whitey nods and, without taking her eyes from the newcomer, lifts her voice 
   slightly and says "Mister Williams? Marco DeLuca to see you." The call is 
   not loud, but carries well on the otherwise empty air.

Buick emerges from the WC, sleeves rolled up. "Who? And how the hell did the 
   kid get a whole damned flock of stuffed sheep into the toilet?"

Marco's eyebrows go up, and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth at 
   Buick's initial questions. He speaks up before Whitey can answer, however. 
   "Marco DeLuca," he repeats smoothly, his eyes sizing Buick up.

Buick eyes Marco, setting the wrench on Whitey's desk and extending a damp 
   hand. "Buick 'Mickey' Williams. Don't suppose you're here for a bed, are 
   you?"

Marco accepts the hand in a brief, business-like handshake. "Ah, no, I'm not. 
   Although I hope this doesn't mean we can't talk, anyway."

Buick shakes his head. "Certainly doesn't. Step into my office, sir?" He waves 
   toward a smaller wooden door.

Marco nods, moving to follow Buick. He gives Whitey a sly wink before he 
   enters the office behind the man.

Whitey smiles shyly and looks down at the desk.

Buick walks through a small door.

Buick's Office
This is a small room with a window onto Regan Street. In the middle of the 
   room is a beaten desk, drawers lolling open, top scratched. The scratched 
   top is hidden by the papers strewn across it. Spider-esque cracks run along 
   the wall behind the desk. In the corner, away from the window, is a futon. 
   A man's clothing is strewn across the futon in disarray. Several 
   astrological symbols appear to be charted across the wall to the left of 
   the desk. They are written in red ink, which seems to have smeared a 
   little. This is probably because the concrete wall has been sweating. The 
   city creeps in through the unfettered window.

Buick settles himself on the far side of his desk, indicating a chair before 
   it.

Marco settles himself with a deliberate preciseness in the indicated chair, 
   crossing his legs fluidly. "Good of you to see me this late, Mr. Williams, 
   was it?"

Buick smiles and nods. "That's me. Are you interested in making a donation, 
   sir?"

Marco looks around the office as if he can see through the walls, thoughtful. 
   "Possibly. Although, I had other business to discuss, first."

Buick nods and leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Shoot."

Marco looks directly at Buick, steepling his fingers before him while his 
   elbows rest on the arms of his chair. "You're practicing some business on 
   the side that I find discomfiting, Mr. Williams," he says lightly, his tone 
   slightly at odds with the vaguely unsettling quality of his look.

Buick frowns uncertainly. "Um. There's nobody listening at the door, and 
   there's no hidden bugs. Do me a favour and cut to the chase here."

Marco shrugs his shoulders eloquently. "You're illegal activities are 
   infringing on mine. Even if it is small time, I don't like it. I'd like you 
   to stop. Or," he says, offering an alternative, "I'd like to offer a 
   proposal for you to start working for me."

Buick blanches slightly. "Aw shit. She didn't start already, did she? I 
   fuckin' told her to wait until... shit."

Buick extends a hand across the desk. "Look. She's a kid, and a little 
   overambitious. I'll reel her in, if she's treading on any toes."

Marco watches the reaction only cocking an eyebrow, then studies the hand. For 
   now, he doesn't accept it. "No..." he says pensively, allowing a slight 
   smile to color his expression. "I want to reel *you* in, Mr. Williams. Both 
   of you," he adds.

Buick frowns, and lets his hand fall on the desk. "Okay. Tell me your thoughts 
   on the matter, then."

Marco's eyes narrow and his mouth tightens a fraction, turning into the hard 
   businessman. "I don't like competition. Not only does it lead to 
   unnecessary bloodshed through turf wars, it also drives down prices, at 
   least temporarily. I've been in this business too long to go through this 
   shit again. So," he says, briskly, his tone the one of a man used to 
   getting his own way and brooking no argument, "since I don't think you have 
   the power to pose any *real* threat to me, it's far 
   more...advantageous...to both of us, if you come to work for me. You 
   continue doing what you're doing, except that I say what price you charge, 
   and agree to possibly expand your business into more profitable avenues, 
   which I have access to."

Buick leans back now. "So. In order to sell pot to my friends in this 
   building, all I gotta do is agree to buy from you, at your prices, sell at 
   your prices, and then start pushing crack?"

Marco's eyes narrow thoughtfully as he considers Buick's words, then smiles 
   thinly, a smile that would send chills up some people's spines. "Not 
   necessarily crack," he says amiably. "But in general, that's the idea. 
   Trust me," he says, continuing, "I'm not trying to screw you, here, and I 
   think once you heard the terms, you'd agree that you were coming out in a 
   better position than you're in now."

Buick purses his lips. "I'll be blunt. I hope that's okay. I'm taking bets 
   that you're the new supplier in town. Which means I'm betting that I'll be 
   getting out of the business."

Marco quirks an eyebrow, smile showing a hint of humor. "Possibly. But, you 
   also have something to offer me. Your customers, and contacts."

Buick shrugs. "Okay. So tell me your new idea."

Marco says simply, "You agree to my terms, and will work for me?"

Buick says "That's your old idea. I'm getting out of the business, though. 
   Remember?"

Marco tilts his head down to study something in his lap for a moment before 
   looking up. "If that's your choice. You put your customers into contact 
   with my dealers before you get out. Perhaps help me find new ones?" he asks 
   with a lingering smile. "In return, I'll funnel some of my profits into 
   your shelter here," he says, waving one slim hand around airily.

Buick shrugs. "I assume your dealers do, in fact, deal in pot. There's three 
   of my customers who need it for medicinal purposes."

Marco's eyebrow raises a fraction, but he nods once. "I can get my hands on 
   some," is his answer.

Buick nods. "Great. Because that's what all fifteen buy. It'll improve your 
   sales a little. Give you a hint: It's a plant. Grows outta the ground."

Marco's expression becomes icy cold as he smiles. "You tread on dangerous 
   ground, Mr. Williams," he says softly.

Buick shrugs. "What the hell. I live on dangerous grounds, mac. But at least 
   I'm not treading on /your/ grounds any more. You won't have to worry about 
   me packing an Uzi and gunning down one of your kids defending my turf. Or 
   cutting into your pot sales, once you start selling it.?"

Marco laughs mirthlessly, then shakes his head. "Ah, Mr. Williams. You amuse 
   me. But you haven't agreed to the deal, or not, yet, except to offer 
   insult. I think I'm being more than reasonable, and," he moves to add, "I 
   think that helping out the ones on the street should be slightly more 
   important to you than insulting potential benefactors."

Buick shakes his head. "I told you that I'd tell my customers about you. Of 
   course, I don't know yet what to tell them."

Marco says softly, "Say you agree, and I'll tell you what to tell them."

Buick glances at his watch. "Okay. Point the first, I'm not selling. Point the 
   second, I'll tell the folks who used to buy from me something about you. 
   Signed Buick Williams."

Marco nods briskly. "Tell them to contact Weasel. If they're on the streets, 
   they'll know him. If they don't, I'll send him by here. The price is," he 
   names a price, several dollars cheaper than what you normally charge. While 
   he says this, he pulls a money clip out from within his inner jacket 
   pocket, and thumps through it quickly, peeling off two bills, then leaning 
   forward to offer the remainder to Buick. "Make sure to not make the 
   donation too obvious at first. I don't wish to attract attention by it."

Buick nods. "Don't worry. A lot of our donations are done anonymously and in 
   cash." He takes the roll, trying not to look obviously like he doesn't like 
   touching it. "Weasel. Gotcha."

Marco's eyebrow flickers as if catching something, perhaps, but he nods and 
   pushes to his feet. "I'll be in touch, Mr. Williams."

Buick nods. "I'll leave the light on for you. Thanks for stopping by."

Marco smiles. "No, thank you, Mr. Williams," he says with a trace of 
   sincerity, offering his hand out.

Buick stands to take the hand. "Last thing I need around here is more guns and 
   shit."

Marco chuckles drily. "I don't want it either, Mr. Williams. Good night."

Buick rolls his sleeves back up, and pushes his chair in. "Happy we could come 
   to an agreement."

Marco flickers a smile, then moves to let himself out with a satisfied air.

Buick allows him to go.

You open the door and step through.
Regan Hope Project(#3662RAJ)

Marco walks out of the office with a self-satisfied expression and approaches 
   Whitey's desk once more. "Everything take care of, although I didn't catch 
   your name," he asks with a faint smile.

Whitey closes her book, leaving a finger to mark the place. "They call me 
   Whitey. You didn't catch it because I didn't throw it." She cocks her head 
   slihtly, so she can look up.

Marco chuckles warmly, mock catching something out of the air with a flick of 
   his wrist and a close of his hand. "But, I have it now. So, when do they 
   let you free of the desk?"

Whitey shrugs. "When somebody wakes up to take over? When Mister Williams isn't
   busy with other things? It's a sort of a 24-hour job set up with lots of 
   breaks." She lifts her head slightly more.

Marco splays his fingers spider-like on the desk, leaning on them as he leans 
   towards Whitey with a faint, challenging tilt to his head and smile. "So, 
   can you find someone, then? I'd like to take you out for coffee and don't 
   exactly fancy the stuff I'm sure you have here."

Whitey looks around the room, smiling awkwardly. "What, right now?"

Marco's smile widens a fraction. "You're here, I'm here...yes, now."

Whitey smiles a bit wider, turning her face down. She scoots her chair back, 
   and slips out of it. "I'll -- I'll just be a minute."

Marco smiles with enthusiasm, straightening up to wait for Whitey's return.

Whitey slips back, and knocks on the office door. "Buick? I'm going out for a 
   little while. You're on your own." she says. She waits for a moment, 
   listening, then slips back toward her desk. "There."

Marco grins, then puts out his hand, slightly palm up so that if she takes it, 
   her hand will be over his fingers rather than the typical handshake.

Whitey catches her lower lip in her teeth and slips her hand into his.

Marco notices the show of nervousness and quite deliberately drawing it out, 
   ducks down to kiss her fingers while his eyes never leave her face. He 
   straightens with a playful, small smile, then offers his arm with a tiny 
   fluorish.

Whitey looks away, but doesn't stop smiling. "I see. One of those." she says 
   as she takes his arm.

Marco covers her hand on his arm briefly with his opposite hand, smiling 
   self-deprecatingly. "I spent the last few years in Europe, and it taught me 
   how that all women, deep down inside, wish to be treated like ladies. So, 
   shall we depart?"

Whitey nods and smiles. "Yes, we shall I think." She takes one last glance at 
   the office door before leaving."
---- Recall end ----

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