17 December 2008
The Hogshead Pub 19:41

England had changed.  Not physically, but socially although the weather outside tonight wasn't too hospitable.  Biting cold, a chilly wind and off and on snowfall was certainly not his form of ideal traveling conditions.  With his cloak wrapped tightly around him to play buffer to a majority of the chill, he quietly strolled up the cobblestone street. The prize was right there, well, at least the prize against winter's wrath.  The window of the warmly lit pub before him beckoned with temptation and if it hadn't already been his planned destination he would certainly have fallen into whatever siren played from that light.  The HogsHead was good for two things, alcohol at just about every variation possible, and the ability to have a conversation without much risk of being overheard and practically no risk of whatever was heard being remembered the next morn.

A bell tolled above the door, barely, to announce his arrival - not that anyone but the barkeep paid much heed for it and even he wouldn't acknowledge him until he ordered.  It was quite possibly the only establishment where one could literally find solitude surrounded by people.  Burke's brown eyes scanned the room before pulling up a seat at the bar.  No one stood out directly as an auror - they were hardly welcome in here anyway - but no one stood out either as the Greek whom he sought either.  Plenty of folk who looked like they'd done their fair share of world travel and wrongdoing, but none who seemed very intelligent after whatever number drink they were on.

"Bobby been in, late?" Burke questioned with seemingly vague interest while he also ordered a shot of year 1994 aged firewhiskey.  The barkeep shrugged, diligently rinsing mug after mug.  Right choice too, Merlin knew where half these people's hands - yet alone their lips had been.  "Haven't served a Bobby by any name for o'er three weeks.  Wrong pub if you're a lookin' for 'em."   Well that was grand then, no aurors meant no risk, well, little risk.  One couldn't exactly trust drunkards either.  They tended to smell and sod on your coattails when you weren't looking.  More than likely the badge toting pygmy puffs were too busy playing parlay and fetch to have time to lean on informants.  The game afoot now was just figuring out who the local whistle-blowers were, and seeing just how lined the Ministry had made their pockets for their trouble.

"What about Terry the Greek?" Blank stare.  Blank stare.  Blink.  "Gonna be taking that as a no then, ah well."  He downed the shot.  "I'll buy this bottle and another if you have it.  A word if Bobby shows up, yeah?"  Some systems never changed.  Patrons were forever patrons, and the Hogshead was forever well, a drunken communal underground of job-for-hire.  At least he wasn't late yet.

The summons had been short and to the point.  Hogsmeade was still busy with the Winter Festival, and after his encounter two days before, it paid to be cautious.  He'd apparated in outside of town, keeping an eye out for any flashes of scarlet, and had carefully made his way to the Hogshead.  He didn't trust Webb, the name under which he'd known the man years before, but then, he didn't trust anyone.

The air outside was cool and crisp, the sharp, clear scent of winter abounding.  His entrance to the pub was heralded by the brief tolling of the bell, plunging him into the warmth of the tavern and assaulting his senses with the harsh, sticky aroma of unwashed sweat and old beer.  A quick glance around the room revealed that a handful of regulars were both present and relaxed.  No Aurors then.  Any hint of Ministry scrutiny and there would be a very different crowd inside.

It had been a long and inglorious winter.  Bruised arms hung up for monument; stern alarums changed to merry meetings; and if Terry had to sit through one more speech on the glory of fatherhood and the righteousness of man, he was going to drive his wand somewhere unpleasant.  The Schlagenweit brat was gone now, but he had left his wisps and sighs behind, and already, the Old Man was speaking happily and longingly of the next time he'd drop in to visit.  His encounter with Bünyamin had allowed him to vent some of his frustrations, but it still left him feeling penned in, unsettled.  The other man was a Seer.  Terry did not want him Seeing him.

They were problems that would have to be dealt with - the Old Man, the Boy, and the Jewish Mage - but for now, they had been set aside.  The problems that they posed could wait.  He was patient.  Tonight's encounter would be with one Dominick Webb, who was always fruitful, usually entertaining.

Tiresias let his eyes play over the figures inside the tavern, evaluating each one as he paused in the doorway.  Webb was at the bar, his back half to the counter, already lazily watching the pub's inhabitants as well.  That was good enough for the Greek wizard.  He sauntered over to the counter and took the stool next to the smuggler, not sparing him a glance as he signaled the bartender for a whiskey.

It was hardly a dance hall, but the Hoghead was becoming a bit boisterous.  One's ears were practically useless once the conversation trickled more than three feet away, but that didn't mean people were able to hide under his nose either.  He didn't know the bartender, he didn't have to.  He just had to watch him.  The number one job of any barkeep was to handle their patrons, which sadly meant making good drinks while monitoring the door and in the Hogshead monitoring the door was actually more important than the quality of the drink.  A sailor doesn't pause on the pier to safe harbor, such is generally the same in the criminal underworld.  Needless to say it attracted the barkeep's attention, which in turn, attracted his.

"Hey, lookit that! It's Terry the Greek.  And you told me you hadn't seem him..."  Burke bellowed, his voice joining the bustling common while he glared accusingly at the barkeep.  As the poker faced smuggler ordered a drink, Burke couldn't help but chuckle.  "You're a difficult man to make amends with, you know that?  Place is filthy clean, Whats Your Drink over there wouldn'tve let you sit down otherwise."  He paused just long enough to belay the man's order.  "Ninety-four was a good year.  Help yourself ; I bought the bottle."

In truth he'd never really known what to make of Katsaros' silent nature.  The man spoke few words unless they were relevant and fewer to none if they weren't.  His loyalty was unquestionable and that was why Richard wanted him so bloody badly - whether he was a free agent or not.  Call it a second job, off the books in both directions.  He didn't know how long this meeting would last, probably not long, most dealings didn't.  Especially when there was no large product involved.

Webb had not gotten any quieter in the years since he'd known him.  Tiresias gave the Irish wizard a flat, humorless look as his presence was announced to anyone who might be listening, and then returned his attention to the bartender, dark eyes following as the open bottle was again lifted and the drink was poured. 

They both knew that he hadn't come to the Hogshead so that Webb could pay off his prior debt.  Forty galleons wasn't a pittance, but in their line of work, such a sum was hardly worth drawing a man into the open.  If they were both here together, and if Webb was insistent on buying him drinks, it was because he wanted something.  Information, a favor, to hire him on - it didn't matter.  He'd come with a shopping list, which likely had to do with whatever reason had brought the elusive smuggler back to the United Kingdom.

At least Webb had been right; ninety-four was a good year.  Terry took a moment to savor the shot, and then cast a brief, idling glance over at the other man.  Normally, names weren't mentioned in public; it was another way to protect oneself, just in case some Ministry rat overheard.  But after the smuggler's boisterous announcement a few moments before, Tiresias wasn't above being petty. 

"Long way to come just to settle a debt, Webb," he said, sliding the glass back to the bartender so that he could pour another shot. "I'd hate to think you went out of your way."

Ninety-four had been a  good year for more than just firewhiskey but few outside of the high ranks of the underworld had connected events occurring in that year to his disappearance.  If they'd connected it, most - spare the odd couple that had sent men to follow him - chalked him up for dead and moved on with their enterprises.  As far as they were concerned, a major contender had dropped off the radar and out of the running for ruler of the London Wizarding Underground.  It was an unwritten title of course, since much like pirates, criminals typically cared only for themselves and their scores.

"Long way to come just to settle a debt, Webb.  I'd hate to think you went out of your way."

Right to business then.  Fair enough, they were both men of the old breed after all, profit before principle and all that.  "I never go out of my way, never have and never will."  He replied coolly  London called me home and I'm settin' up import/export operation again now that the rates've gone down a bit."  He paused.  "Facts of the matter are I need information and reliable help.  My estranged contacts in London aren't as interested or...lively...as they used to be."  He kept his voice low, but collected.  Business matters were sensitive, illegal business matters were like goblin gold.

"Short version is that I require your assistance, if you're under no direct obligation of course."

The firewhiskey, as well as recouping whatever money that Webb might owe him, gave Tiresias a chance to consider his words as he took a drink.  For as long as he had known the other man, the smuggler had braved well away from England's shores.  His return said a great deal more about his intentions than his words could.  If Webb was venturing this near to the Ministry's grasp, he had obviously planned to come home and stay.

The Old Man would not be happy to hear that the Irish smuggler was moving in on his turf.  Webb was not the sort of man who stayed under another's thumb, and Malvivicus did not suffer competition.  Even if one managed to pen in the other, the pair would tire of each other quickly.  There would be a great sound and a fury, and where two might stand before, only one would remain in the end.

If Webb was returning, then the clash was inevitable.  Whatever happened, Terry intended to walk away from the confrontation.  It was best to keep his options open this early in the process.  Forty galleons stood in lieu of thirty pieces of silver.

"The...obligation depends on the assistance," he said at last.  His gaze was locked on the bartender, who, in an effort to prove just how little he was listening, had vacated to the far corner where he was putting more effort into polishing glasses than the Hogshead had likely ever seen.  "What information are you looking for?"

"The...obligation depends on the assistance.  What information are you looking for?"

Fair enough, in no way was he asking for blind commitment.  No soldier accepted orders without knowing first where and why he was going and what his strength and opposition was.  No criminal would ever take a job without first analyzing the risks, but at the end of the day, no criminal blindly approached someone and merely hoped they would sign on either.  He shifted on the stool and refiled his glass only to down  it a second later.  It was a damn good beverage if he ever knew one, and also probably the only vice factoring to this conversation.

"Of course, of course.  I wouldn't expect a man of your experience to agree to something blind, it would violate principle."  Answered Burke, chuckling slightly.  He never expected it, but the option was on his list of possible outcomes.  People were only predictable to a point after all.  "No bullocks.  Information's all I'm looking for right now.  People mostly. Who the major players are, the minor hacks, any reliable hands.  Who died, who got caught, who's new and upcoming?  I want reliable intel and I'll pay top galleon for the work.  Fact is, this area was once my backyard and the restraining order's expired."

It wasn't as much a restraining order on him as it was several international warrants and strangely enough possibly attached to one of his dead aliases, a child support payment?  He still couldn't figure that one out, but then when you have to sometimes live in with muggles the waters do turn colors other than blue.  Asking for information was far from criminally criminal as say, taking out a hit, and no he couldn't rightly trust the Greek gentleman to his right to keep his mouth shut, but he could hope for the best.  His names were ones that still floated around in the right wrong circles.  They would remember.

"If you must spread word around about who's asking, just tell them Webb's back in the Isles.  And, on a more personal note, that Bedford should mind his teas because I sent his little gift back to him."

He had never asked why Webb had left the British Isles.  The Irish wizard had stood out in North Africa, but then, they had all stood out.  Terry considered his options as he examined the glass of whiskey in his hands.  Ninety-four had certainly been a good year.  It had also been a very poor year, depending on which circles one moved in.

Tiresias had always stayed clear of England.  During the war, competition had thrived - too much so for anyone practical.  British wizards seemed to think that they had a steel grip on any dark doings, but the reality was that the world was much more wide than they ever seemed to recognize.  What the United Kingdom did have was money.  There were certainly those here who were willing to pay top dollar and had lost their morals somewhere in the annals of history.  Money meant opportunity, which brought in potential entrepreneurs like flies to the slaughter.  The underworld did not look kindly on healthy competition.

He was here now, though.  And so was Webb.  And one way or another, Kronos Malvivicus was certain to find out about him.

"The backyard's changed," he said flatly.  "The Ministry thinks they have a lock on things since the war."  He glanced sidelong at the other man, sharing a dark look with him as he took a long, slow drink.  "Some of your old customers might be out, but the British spend all of their time hiding in alleyways.  They're under the red robes' thumb."

He considered, resting his own finger easily on the edge of the now-empty glass.  "If you're looking to come home again, I might know a man I can pass your name on to," he said in a low voice.  "But you'll need more than gifts if you want to do business with Malvivicus."

Backyards shouldn't change unless the ownership of the property changes.  And no, he hadn't exactly maintained his booming former presence in the Isles but that didn't mean that he'd given rights over either.  It was his ruddy backyard dammit.  His.  Ruddy.  Yard.  And these buggers were going to clean up after their little pet lapdogs and toy poodles, one way or another.  Now in reality Burke was not outright forceful, he was strategic.  There was a difference, but there was no denying that the henchman's words were making his blood bubble up and boil in the veins beneath his skin.  Poker face it was then.

He couldn't help but laugh however when it came to remarking about the Ministry.  They couldn't control their way out of a darkened alley, yet alone ever expect to control the Underground.  They were far too steadfast in their time-tested ways to adapt to the changing systems.  Well, some adapted, but those were too few and took forever to reach statuses where their tactics were respected enough.  Field research was difficult to conduct in law enforcement.  Then again, two petty arrests made more than one important one on the percentage field didn't it?  And that was all the Ministry would ever care about.

Numbers.  Percentages.  Figures they could 'Wow' their shaky and fluid public face with.

Still, Terry had dropped a name, and it was one he knew quite well around Europe, North Africa and the Mediterranean.  He knew it, but the man himself was as much a mystery to Richard as Richard was to him.  At least, he hoped that was the case.  However there was no way that two forward driven men could ever work for one another.  With each other maybe, but neither man would ever likely put himself in the direct service of another - even if the purse was theoretically large enough.  Competition was messy, under the table, but overall messy.  Maybe it was time to repaint the walls?

Richard thought long after the mans words.  Much had been said in so little and his answer would certainly set an overall tone if confrontation was as unavoidable as it seemed.  "I take it professional arse-kissing has gone the way of the dogs then?"  He paused contemplating his own rhetoric with a small smile.  "Good.  It means the only people that'll turn up for me are the ones who can get jobs done right instead of people who think a saved botched job is good enough.  Pass my name on to your master Malvivicus.  Whether or not we do business or squabble for coin is his call to make not mine.  The Isles are still a big ocean, and although I'm sure he's quite the local shark he should keep in mind I'm no freshwater cod either."

The silence stretched on for a moment as Webb considered his words, and Terry was satisfied to let it lay.  He hadn't come here tonight to gather bounds of information or to intimidate; his purpose was solely to discover the reason for the unexpected summons, and possibly to discern the smuggler's current intentions.  That had made clear enough.  Webb was intending on expanding into England.

The Irish wizard finished his consideration and leapt into his usual yap of a response.  The underlying sentiment was more important than the words this time.  Webb wasn't here to attack; he was probing his options, getting the lay of the land.  Unless he already knew and was using Tiresias to launch his first salvo.

The Greek wizard glanced sidelong at him, his face expressionless.  "He keeps his own mind," he replied.  "But I'll pass the word on."

With a look at the bartender, he rose to his feet, only pausing briefly to glance at the smuggler once more.  "I'll tell the Old Man that Dominick Webb is back in town?" he asked, not bothering to emphasize the name.

Right then.  Let the words sink in and his braincells do the rest of the math - not that the math should matter to him.  Clearly Malvivicus was the top dog of the Isles region, but in as much as titles were earned, they could be re-earned.  The same goes for records, fish stories and in relation to the modern day youth, apparently the size of a male's genitalia.  Oh well.  At the end of the day, Katsaros wasn't paid to do his own thinking, or Malvivicus' thinking either but he would and he would likely keep his opinion to himself.  For better or worse.

"Right.  That'd be the important part, yeah?  Throw in whatever else you like.  He'll understand I'm sure."  Burke replied dryly as the man got up to leave, quickly putting distance between them.  Their conversation finsihed though it may be left much still undetermined.  Richard made no effort to stop him as he left, not at first.  "Oh, Terry, forgot something!"  He tossed a small but weighted pouch at the man.  "Now you can go tell the 'Old Man' whatever you please.  another for me mate, if you don't mind.  Cheers."

He was dismissed.  You see, this wasn't just a message for Katsaros boss, it was also a message to anyone else's ears who might be in the pub.  At the end of the night it would be mission accomplished, provided these inconsiderate slobs behind him actually let him leave peaceably.  Well.  There was more than one way to please a bar.  "a round for the house too.."  It just didn't please his personal purse.