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Intersection of Grym Broders Avenue and 15th Street

Empty buildings, some warehouses, others abandoned factories, fill this section of town. With the technical advances of the twentieth century, many of the sweatshops in this sector have closed. Also, as labor in St. Claire has gotten more expensive, many companies have moved south toward Mexico where dispossessed peasants are willing to work for pittance. Signs, some faded beyond recognition, give some hint to the prosperous past that once infected this area.

Grym Broders Avenue advances east while 15th Avenue juts off to the north.

Becca steps out of the front door of the old Wesler factory.

At fourteen Becca is actually a rather pretty young lady, though you have to look past a certain amount of grime to see this. Her complexion is surprisingly clear for a teenager, her face sketched out by sloping lines, more smooth curves than angles. Underneath the occasional streaks of dirt and paint her tanned skin has a healthy glow to it, and her movements come about fueled with the quick energy of youth. Still, her curly brown hair would certainly benefit from seeing a hairbrush, and a bit of soap and water combined with some clean clothes could provide a less noticeable aroma.

Becca comes out of one of the countless dilapidated buildings here, just as normal as if she was walking out of an apartment building. The heavy door creaks on rusty hinges as she slams it shut behind her.

Charleen is sitting on a park bench, with a paper grocery sack next to her. She is drinking out of a brown bottle, her suede-gloved hand wrapped around it. She smiles as she catches sight of Becca and she nods in a friendly way.

Charleen(#3481Pc) Cool and composed, this woman's hazel eyes take your measure as she turns her regard in your direction. Charleen seems to wear her beauty with unconcern, but there are signs that give away the care she takes: the artfully minimistic make-up, the shining waves of her auburn hair, the understated expense of the clothing she wears. Slender and tall, this woman in her thirties moves with a practiced grace and poise that often catches the attention of others. Today, Charleen is wearing a casual white turtleneck with a soft leather jacket. Designer jeans hug her hips, and her feet are encased in Nike jogging shoes. Gold glints at her neck and ears, and she wears a diamond ring on her right hand.

Serendipity comes along 15th Street from the north.

Becca gives her typical look up and down the street, only slightly paranoid, and tugs her coat closed at a gust of wind. It's not too hard to pick up the one of these things that doesn't belong here. "Hey lady," she says to Charleen, sizing her up and down. "You lost?"

Serendipity wanders by, picking her way through the gutter.

Charleen smiles, not displaying the normal nervousness of the rich around the poor. "No, dear. Just enjoying a little lunch break. Would you like to join me?"

Charleen puts her free hand inside the brown grocery sack. She pulls out another brown bottle, unopened.

Serendipity pauses and raises her head to sniff at the two women.

Becca says "Lunch break?" The world may as well have been in another language for the amount of meaning she puts behind it, to match the confused look on her face. The glance lingers on the spots of gold jewelry another moment before noticing the cat. "Hey, kitty," she coos, crouching down so that her jacket drags in the god knows what that's in the gutter here. She wiggles her fingers a few times to catch the cat's attention.

Serendipity sits down, her attention piqued by the wiggling fingers and the rustling of the paper bag. She curls her tail neatly around her front paws and stares intently at Becca's fingers.

Charleen doesn't seem put out, placing the bottle down at the other end of the bench. It stands there: a cold Red Dog beer. "You're welcome, anyway."

Charleen then returns to her own drink. She watches Becca discretely.

Becca wiggles the fingers another moment or two, and gives up when they start getting cold. "You're not, like, a cop or anything, are you?" she asks bluntly as she stands, looking intently at Charleen.

As soon as Becca transfers her attention elsewhere, the kitten moves right up to her feet and sits down, meowing plaintively.

Charleen smiles gently, shaking her head. "No, dear. Just someone with more beer than they can drink on their lunch."

Becca wanders a few slow steps toward the park bench, still a little on the jumpy side. One hand drifts toward and into her jacket pocket to finger something as she reaches with the other for the beer. "Thanks," she says, words as slow as her movements.

Serendipity follows Becca, trailing very close to the woman-thing's heels. Her blue eyes are wide and fascinated.

Charleen smiles at Becca. "Not a problem." She takes another drink of her own beer, then says, "Since we're drinking together, we might as well introduce ourselves. I'm Charleen."

Becca looks at the beer, looks at the lady, and shrugs. "Too many people waste things," she mutters quietly as she slumps down onto the opposite end of the bench. With a practiced hand she twists the top off, and takes a long sip. "Oh, I'm Becca," she says, warming up a little to the lady; apparently her suspicions stem mostly from other sources. "You, um, don't look like you work around here. Most ladies who work around here... well, they work nights, you know."

Serendipity blinks up at them and then leaps up into the wide space between the two women. She sits like a queen, occasionally turning her head to look at Becca or Charleen.

Charleen smiles at the kitten and again dips her hand in the bag. She pulls out a deli sandwich--roast beef. After picking a few stray bits of meat off the kaiser bun and offering them to the cat, she replies, "Oh, I don't work around here. I work for the electric company, uptown. But I had a meeting this morning and I decided to reward myself for having to work on Sunday with a little picnic."

Serendipity considers the offering gravely for a moment, looks away, and then pounces on Charleen's hand, devouring the threads of meat.

Becca nods, skepticism increasing slightly with the story. She continues drinking the beer, watching the cat, eyeing Charleen, and fingering whatever that is in her right pocket. "Not many people come down southside," she says pointedly, blunt once again. With the beer bottle she gestures toward a visible piece or two of jewelry. "And certainly not wearing shit like that. You, um--" She cuts off, glancing up and down the street, and lowers her voice. "Looking to buy stuff, maybe?"

Charleen smiles at the kitten, a charming, gentle smile. "Hungry, huh?" She glances up at the other woman and smiles again, "Depends on what you have to sell, I suppose, dear." Another pause as the kitten licks her fingers, then Charleen says offhandedly, "There's another sandwich in there, if you want it. I bought too much."

Serendipity looks up at Charleen, eyes large. She meows questioningly.

Charleen chuckles softly and pulls another scrap of meat off for the kitten. "Here you go, kitty."

Becca says "I thought you might, well, fancy dressed with money, housewife too probably..." She trails off on that rather confusing note, lapsing into another puzzled stretch of silence. After a moment or two she abandons her grasp on whatever's in her pocket and reaches over to lay claim to the sandwich, before the offer is withdrawn.

Serendipity devours the meat and then archs backwards to follow the sandwich as it passes over her head, falling on her back. She crawls into Becca's lap, seeking more food.

Becca senses "Charleen's bag also contains four more beers and perhaps a...bag of chips?" Becca starts munching on the sandwich hungrily, in what quite obviously must be her first meal of the day. In between bites she offers the sandwich over for the kitten to nibble off of.

Serendipity puts her tiny paws on Becca's wrist to hold the sandwich still while she nibbles. After she has a mouthful, she removes her paws and lets Becca have her arm back. Then she butts her head against Becca's side, purring.

Becca, over the course of a surprising few short moments, polishes off the sandwich and the bottle of beer. She reaches back into the bag to pull out a smaller bag of chips and opens them. It's only after she's got a few actually in route to her mouth that she pauses, and asks "Oh, were you too full for these, too?"

Charleen nods, a faint smile playing on her lips. She then asks, "So, are you one of the...sellers you mentioned people look for?"

Becca stuffs a few chips into her mouth and speaks while still chewing. "Maybe," she answers, cautiously, and swallows. "It all depends." She gives another little shrug with this, shovels some more potato chips in her mouth (after laying out one of the smaller chips for the kitten to bat around first), and pulls out another bottle of Red Dog. This time she doesn't bother to ask first, simply screwws off the top and trusts Charleen to mention if she had other plans for it.

Serendipity eyes the chip suspiciously, and then sniffs at it. She wrinkles her nose, and then cautiously licks it. Then she winds up and bats it off the park bench. She looks up at Becca expectantly.

Becca rolls her eyes some at the cat. "We don't play that, silly kitty." She takes a second, equally small chip from the bag, and sets it in front of the kitten.

Serendipity pounces on the chip, crushing it beneath her paws and sweeping the pieces off the bench. She looks up, grease-chip bits clinging to her whiskers, and then moves the bits remaining on the bench around with her paw.

Serendipity sits up straight, her ears pricking. Her tail quivers, and then she hurls herself off the park bench and races down the street. A little ways away, she skids to a stop, turns and looks at the women carefully, and then turns and walks away in a dignified manner.

Becca giggles a little, sipping on the beer that's suddenly found itself half-way down and popping potato chips contentedly.

Charleen chuckles after the cat, finishing the last of her own drink. Fishing out another bottle, she asks, "What does it depend on?" A wry smile lifts the corners of her mouth, "As you noticed, I can pay."

Mosh steps out of the front door of the old Wesler factory.

Becca pauses, thinks. "That I know I can trust you. Tell me what you're looking for, and I guarantee I'll be able to set you up with the right person." She smiles some, and takes another sip to finish off the bottle. "No charge."

Mosh slips out from the abandoned factory, jarring the huge front door shut behind him. He pauses on the curb, sweeping his gaze up, then down the street, an, when he notices Becca, he starts over, balancing like a tightrope walker at the edge of the gutter.

This punk looks like trouble. A short, dark mohawk marches down the middle of his shaven head and hard, grayish-greenish eyes stab about with an open suspicion and scorn. Punched through a nose that has seen its fair share of breaks is a crooked gold hoop - another pierces his left eyebrow and several more shine from both ears. Cheap silver rings encircle most of his fingers and both thumbs, and a tangle of tacky necklaces hangs from his scrawny neck. His narrow, angular face is obviously young but is worn and tired and there is a rugged look to his tight, thinly-muscled frame. The scent of the city cloaks him thick, and he moves with an easy, athletic precision.

He is wearing a large, long sleeved, black 'Social Distortion' T-shirt, the letters faded and cracked along permanent wrinkles. A heavy, dirty denim jacket is pulled on over this and a black wool cap is tugged onto his head. Cinched tight by a black leather belt are a pair of baggy and tattered army-green pants, cut off at midshin. White sports socks with red stripes running around the top are yanked up as far as they can be and beaten black Nike Airs are on his feet.

Becca gives a wave to Mosh with an empty as she notices him, calling out "Hey, there." She carefully places the bottle on the ground beside the bench, flush up against a second empty. "You like kittens?"

Charleen falls quiet as the young punk comes closer. She still appears strangely unafraid, but she does not make the friendly motions toward Mosh that she did toward Becca, contenting herself with only a unthreatening smile.

Mosh extends his arms to his sides, teeters, doesn't fall. "Naw. Ain't much a one fer cats," he says as he draws near, eyeing the empties. "Got another?"

Charleen tilts the bag slightly to peer in. She answers, "Two more, and I can always go buy more, if we run low." She turns her head to smile at Becca, "Least I could do for that favor."

Mosh darts a surprised look from Becca to the older woman, but doesn't comment. He only leans in and whaps his packmate's shoulder and motions for her to make room on the bench.

Becca makes a half-hearted attempt at a shove back, not putting much effort into it, though. She slides down on the bench closer to Charleen, closing the distance between herself and the bag and leaving Mosh the end. "There was a cute little kitten here earlier," she says to Mosh, a simple explanation. Then she too peers into the bag. "You really don't want these?"

Charleen shakes her head, smiling gently. "Two's enough for me, but the store only sold them in sixpacks."

Charleen is indeed still nursing her second beer.

Becca dives a hand in to pull out the last two bottles and holds one out toward Mosh, sharing nice. "You never named your poison, Charleen. I can't give you the favor until you tell me what exactly you're looking for."

Mosh drops heavily onto the bench, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down. One hand squeeks out from under his armpit, reaching to grab the offered beer. Cocking his head just slightly, he listens.

Charleen considers before she speaks. She then says, "I have several favors I'm looking for, Becca." A small smile touches her lips, "Do you have contacts in all walks, or should you specify for me before I start listing?"

Becca says edgily, "I know people, you know." Clearly, being the first one to talk about illegal things makes her a little uncomfortable, but with Mosh here, not to mention close to three beers in her, she's willing to make certain concessions. "Mostly drugs, soft and hard. I thought that was your style."

Mosh cracks open his beer and sips distractedly as he listens, intent, but not nearly as uncomfortable as Becca.

Charleen smiles, the air of relief about her. "That is part of what I'm looking for, yes." A pause, then, "But I don't want to deal directly, Becca. Some drug dealers...men, begging your pardon, son...think any pretty uptown woman is an easy touch. I think you could get me a much better deal."

Mosh hears 'son' and snorts loudly, shifting in his seat and smirking, but doesn't say a word.

Becca shrugs agreeably. "I could do that, sure. If you want me to act like a... a secretary, though, that might cost a little." She sips on the beer, the free beer, some more. "Just to make it worth my while, I mean."

Charleen smiles again, showing even white teeth. "Of course." She pauses, then says, "I'm looking for something to speed me up. Give me a little pep, you know?"

Becca gives a smile. "Yeah, I think I could handle that. Just give me a day or two, and then a place I could find you at again."

Charleen smiles at the affirmative and nods. "All right, then." She pauses, then says, "As a little additional, if you can bring me any unusual things you hear, I might find a bigger tip for you." The woman brushes back a lock of hair, saying, "I don't want to bore you with my problems, but information can always be helpful."

Becca exchanges a look with Mosh, faint confusion in the expression. "Um, what sort of information?" she asks, slow and somewhat confused once again. She finishes off her bottle to compensate.

Mosh frowns and shrugs at Becca's look, just as uncertain. He peers into his bottle, then over at the older woman at the other end of the bench, curiously.

Charleen tilts her head back, thinking. "Just...anything disorderly. Unusual." She smiles again at the two, "You'll know what I mean when you hear it."

Mosh knocka back his beer and grins, muttering "Fuckin' unusual, huh?" quietly and shaking his head slowly.

Becca says "Uh huh." She stands up, bottle in hand, and gives Mosh a little nudge in the ankle with her toe. "Well, thanks for the lunch, lady-- Charleen. And the beers." She moves toward Mosh's end of the bench to collect the other few bottles. "So where could I find you, in a couple of days? Places work better than phone numbers."

Charleen pauses, then moves her hand toward her pocket. She takes out a card from her wallet and writes a number on the back with an even and clear handwritting. "Here. Call me at this number, on the back." She smiles again, wryly, "I try to seperate business with pleasure, so don't use the front numbers."

Charleen holds out the business card to Becca.

Mosh drains his bottle and stands, impassively following Becca. "Yeah, thanks fer the brew lady," he mumbles, motioning with his empty.

Becca looks at the front, looks at the back, shrugs and secrets it into a jacket pocket. "It'll probably be Tuesday or Wednesday, but no prob. Something to pep you up, and weird shit..." She heads back for the warehouse at a slow pace.

Becca pulls the door to the abandoned factory open with some effort, and steps inside, closing the door behind her.

Mosh pulls the door to the abandoned factory open with some effort, and steps inside, closing the door behind his.

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