Philomenes wasn’t often about his wits these days, but even he knew this was a tragically bad idea. Problem was, he didn’t care. Apothecary Flint had tossed him out on his frosty arse two weeks before, after over a year of loyal service, for dipping his tongue into her stock of Living Death.

With his sticky fingers and huge appetite for the dope, all his suppliers in Knockturn had closed their doors on him. Well…all the sane suppliers, all the low scale deal who wouldn’t/couldn’t do anything if a customer never got around to paying, or stupefied one of their underlings and made off with 20 mLs of concentrated hellebore (Phil had told Hortence Flay he was very sorry about that, but Mr. Flay had nearly set him on fire for the trouble).

It was for this, Philomenes was slogging through the late winter sleet up the lip of Diagon Alley. Huddled down in his coat, pink bitten nose poking out under the weight of five scarves, warmed bottle of firewhiskey clutched close to his body. Scuttling under street lamps and shop eaves and moonlight until he was left lingering anxious outside of huge rosewood door. Scrawled in elegant, shifting script on the sign above:

Calaveras.

Inside, the scent of heated sugar, the luxuriant colors, and nor the lush excess of marigolds and roses dripping from vases was enough to quiet his nerves. Well-dressed patrons, sipping brandy and smoking fine cigars, straightening their ties and glancing away when he shuffled by. Yeah, Phil knew what he looked like. Phil knew he looked dead. He snorted against all thick floral perfumes, burying himself in the sting of firewhiskey to dull them. 

A few other junkies told him he’d find her here. Meredith Renfield, a little girl dressed up in men’s suits, fancied herself a cannibal queen or some such. Not very promising, but hell. It wasn’t like Philomenes had much of a choice. He tugged on the sleeve of a pinstriped maître d’ and leaned in to speak in hushed tones, under the soft brass music flowing in the club.

“I’m looking for Miss Renfield. Help a brother out, if you'd be so kind."

The maître d’, a tall, thin woman with skin the same colour as the Mexican hot chocolate being served, looked down at the hobo/junkie/whatever. Subtle. Well, there was more than one reason her job was being the first person to greet customers.

"Come on then," she said, leading the pale hobo through Calaveras an toward the backroom and offices (she was sure to keep him off the dance floor- who knew what sort of things he was tracking on his shoes). As they passed the bar on the far wall, she raised her voice at a little curvy barista. "Hey Mags! Don't bring anymore boyfriends to work to wait out the last hour of your shift anymore," she said, jerking her head toward Phil, "Boss gets pissed when you do that."

"Won't happen again, Jess!" the barista promised, picking up on the cue immediately.

Jess the maître d’ led Phil through a door at the back of the main room and into a small hallway one side leading to the kitchens the other to the offices. Naturally, she took a right and to the second door on the left. She knocked on the solid door that matched the one leading into the establishment itself. The door swung open.

"He's all yours, Mer," Jess said, leaving as quickly as she had lead Phil here to get back to work.

Meredith looked up from her desk, a trace of a smirk etched on brilliantly stained red lips.

"Well, do come in and have a seat," she said, rising from her desk. "and close the door behind you if you will."

The office itself was all dark, elegantly carved wood and stately furniture. It fit well enough with the club itself, if not being a perfect match. For one thing, it lacked the vibrant colour palate. It was an office Al Copone and his Godfather would have been proud of.

Meredith straightened her skirt as she stood. She was in her usual wear- matching pinstripe skirt, vest and hat, white blouse, red tie and black heels. All very professional. Except for the bloody cleaver earrings and pin. Those would never be professional. But they were her favourite and this was her office dammit.

"Can I get you something to drink....Phil, was it?" she asked, taking two steps to the liquor cabinet.

((OOC: I'm assuming that since this is after the B.C. thread Meredith knows Phil's name. If not, let me now and I'll change it ))

How the hell do you--?

The words buzzed on his lips, his mouth even hung agape for a moment awaiting their delivery. But Philomenes snapped them to bits between his teeth. Best to just pretend he knew where she’d heard his name, don’t look too surprised. Without his cloud of dope, just a warm haze of whiskey, Phil’s wits were far sharper than usual (if still blurred away from being at max capacity). Best not give her an even higher upper hand than she already had.

Phil stripped free of his many scarves, and dipped his head into a polite little bow before replying.

“It’s Philomenes. Yes.”

His voice and expression were flat and weary to the bones, though there was a breath of quicksilver grace in those few words. Sleeplessness resonated out him from his every movement and gesture. He shuffled deeper into the elegant, dark office and flopped bonelessly into the leather-bound chair in front of Meredith’s desk. He procured the bottle of firewhiskey from under his coat and shook it at her like a dinner bell.

“I’ve got plenty of drink right here, but I’d love something a bit finer, Miss Renfield. Anything you would recommend.”

Phil smiled easy as he could manage, the charm in him helping the muscles flow smooth. Even the gap in his teeth might have rendered it just that much more weirdly charming. Huge grey eyes blinked up at Meredith’s bejeweled cleaver earrings glinting the light, then shifted briefly to the long scar marring her face. Phil felt his stomach twist. He looked away.

Cut straight to the chase, then. He didn’t want to be hear a single second than was required to get what he wanted.

“I’ve heard from the birds in the trees that you provide a wide range of…ah, various tranquilizing accoutrements.” Phil took a small sip of his firewhiskey, willing the heat flashing over his tongue to numb his nerves. “…I’m interested. Very.”

Dazmond was in the wind again.  Normally, lack-of-spouse would not be so troubling for Nate Briggs, but that he was still jumpy about Cinaed Tawse.  Thank god his dog had survived, or his situation would be much more dire.  Knockturn was getting more and more heated as the winter drew on colder.  Whatever Cinaed Tawse was doing, starting with that little club meeting, it wasn't good.  Although Dazmond seemed excited.  Excited enough to get out her arts and crafts supplies and make a slew of posters giving that muggle and squib at Reducto some shit.  Hilarious yes, but also a giant Auror magnet.

Nate had enough of Aurors.

But Nate also didn't have a job anymore.  In case it hadn't been obvious, Zelda Sellaphix had formally terminated his employment since he'd rolled on Mr. Sellaphix for a shorter sentence.  The money was running out.  He and Dazmond had done the safe thing and spent as much of the mystery galleons as they could, and so the coffers were coughing up dust.

Philomenes Kecklepenny was an old mate, but a giant mess.  But Philomenes routinely had jobs.  Why should that charming mother get all the fun?

Nate Briggs had followed him to the Calaveras tonight.  (He preferred the Black Chimaera, if he was honest.  Never went to Renfield's places.)  He was as he normally was, rough groomed, worn leather boots, heavy dark green robe for the cold.

Entering the Calaveras, he didn't wait to be invited in.  Half of getting places you weren't welcome was acting like you belonged.  He doffed his hood and held up his hand when a voice asked him who he was and where he thought he was going.

Before anyone quite caught up to him, he was at a big solid door in the back corridor.  He leaned his back up against it and rapped on it with his knuckles.

"You got Philomenes Kecklepenny in there? Me and him need a wo-OOGH!"

Nate's hail was cut short when Jessica the Maitre D' drove her fist into his stomach, and he doubled over.  She'd been closer on his heels than he thought.

"I said, who do you think you are?" she whispered to him with a little too much pleasentness.

Meredith smirked at the pale man's expression. She made it a point to find out anything and everything she could about the movers and shakers of the world, as well as anyone she happened to stumble across in interesting locals (such as the B.C.) that she didn't already know. For this one though, all she had gotten was a name. Well, that and he was a junkie, but that was obvious just after being in the same room for five seconds with the man.

"Philomenes, then," Meredith said as she reached into her liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Blind Tiger whiskey. It didn't have the kick that firewhiskey had, but for drinkability and flavor, it was one of her favorites. She conjured two glasses with ice and poured them, keeping her eyes on Philomenes all the while.

"Here you are then," she said, handing him a glass. "There's really no need to bring your own alcohol in here."

Meredith sipped her own whiskey, sitting back down at her desk. She noticed, with some amusement, Philomenes' glance to her scar and then akwardly away.

"There's no need to act embarressed either," she said. "I honestly don't mind if you stare."

Like any human being Meredith did have some sense of vanity, and a permanent marring of her face had been devastating at first. Now however, the damn thing was actually coming in handy. It helped her look more intimidating and recognizable. And, with the right sort of power and reputation, being recognized could be a potent shield all on it's own.

Although Phil seemed to have his own people tactics. He should smile more often. He looked different, more attractive and less well...like he usually looked. Intrigued at the change, Meredith studied Phil as he talked about what he wanted.

Drugs. Of course. She figured it had to be something like that. She was fairly certain someone like Phil hadn't come into Calaveras for the steak.

"I'm familiar with the market yes," Meredith said. "Well enough to know there's a variety of...products of different properties. What exactly are you looking-"

Her sentence was cut off when someone, who was most assuredly NOT one of her employees was pounding at the door and shouting for Phil. Meredith scowled and stood up, though did not magic the door open for the time being. Not until she knew who was on the other side.

"Friend of yours?" she asked Phil, none-to-happy. She didn't like that a potential customer had been followed, no matter who by. She was not doing time because some junkie was careless.

Judging by the groan, one of Meredith's own had caught up to them. Probably Jess. She had so many talents with...ah...public relations.

On the other side of the door, Jessica now had her wand out and pointing at the intruder. "I asked you a question, gillyweed," she said, still keeping that too-sweet voice and smile. "So start talking."

“He’s my cousin.”

Phil was always quick with a polished little lie. He staggered up from the leather chair the moment he heard that too familiar shout. He paused, back turned to the door, and took great pains about arranging the firewhiskey bottle on Meredith’s desk – if only to rearrange the irritation that had stricken his face into something more…pleasant.

When he turned about and strode over to the door, Phil’s expression was one of peaceful concern and bemusement. Nate would probably be more than a smidge pissed at him for this, but…well, he was massively pissed at Nate right about now. If feelings got hurt, they got hurt.

He looked askance at Meredith, voice dropping to an aside – a whisper of sorts, but loud enough for Nate to hear. Hopefully.

“Had a bad run-in with an amnesia spell, couple months back. Saw something he shouldn’t have, and I’ll be damned if they didn’t make sure he couldn’t tell a soul. Mungo’s therapy bringing him back around and all, but…well, you know how it goes. Or not. Preferrably not.”

Philomenes eased himself into the doorway, and tentatively placed a hand on Nate’s shoulder.

“Nathan.”  Coolly, clearly. “You know it’s unsafe for you to be out at night alone. You ought to have just used the mirror, and –oh. Right, Nate, sorry.” He glanced to Meredith with the impeccable look of ‘what can you do?’, like a put upon parent.

When his gaze flickered back to Nate, the soft smile faded from his lips, leaving them a serious line. His huge eyes squinted just so, slivering down. The face said Philomenes Kecklepenny was honestly and truly Not Dicking Around So Roll With This, Nate, Or I’ll Curse Your Baubles Off.

Perhaps it was a face Nate Briggs had seen before. Probably on lots of different people.

“Do you want to wait in here with me, if Miss Renfield would be accommodating?” he glanced to her, and inclined his head. “Or perhaps outside with…ah, Jessica, was it?” And there was that smile again, oil smooth and easy. A faint blur started creeping up at the edges of his vision, and he shook his head lightly. Reign it in, reign it in. Don't go making half the club swoon with that damn charm.

Nate straighted up, furious, only to find the tuxedoed maitre d' holding a wand in his face and calling him a gillyweed.  His brows furrowed up as he took a breath to respond when the door swung open to reveal a dark lush office.

He saw Philomenes.  He saw Meredith Renfield.  And he heard the piss poor dodgy bullshit lie the tosser was weaving so expertly about him being ... a recovering amnesiac?  His face was immediately wash with a What The Hell Are You Doing, a scowl agape.

He moved in to protest, to say something again, but Phil was close next to him now, continuing to bullshit at him.  He closed his mouth and gritted his teeth.  The absolutely last thing he wanted was for someone like Meredith Renfield to think he was a half-glow, and that he was the kind of person that needed to be Oblivated from time to time.  He shook his head, ready to assault Phil, but then, with a feeling of surrender, his scowl turned into a tight-lipped smile.  Damn that Phil. 

He turned his strained, pissed off smile at Meredith Renfield as he clapped Philomenes on the back, hard.  Her scar was staring at him. 

He smiled dutifully.  He'd play his part, and scratched at his beardy neck. "Cheers, Phil. Quite lost meself for a spell. Now that we're here though - always wanted to meet Ms Renfield."

He bowed his head to her and then slid past Jess and Philomenes into the room, but didn't sit down, sort of occupying a space behind the chair that was probably Phil's.  He leaned against the fireplace hearth, crossed his arms and waited. 

For this business to get on, or for one or all to be thrown out on their duffs by some painful method of Jess's.

Meredith resisted the very strong urge to facepalm. This was getting ridiculous. She was trying to run a business, not a circus. She waved her hand at Jess, giving the employee permission to leave. She was fairly certain neither man was a threat.

Cousin, huh? Meredith's eyes narrowed slightly as she watched the two interact. She wasn't sure she was buying the story, albeit well-delivered. Meredith tried not to take anything at face value-- it ended to water-down her information tank.

She had to say, she had seriously underestimated Phil's charm. Every now and then in his talk it came peeking out behind the junkie grim. Made her want to give the man a good scrubbing and suit and see him really work.

Instead of pushing the story, Meredith shut the door with her wand and poured another glass of whiskey, handing it to Nate. Another flick had a chair appearing besides the one Phil had been using.

"Well now you get to meet me and do business," she said. "Here, maybe this will calm you down. And have a chair."

She went back to her desk and sat down, opening up her cigarette case and lighting a fag. She inhaled deeply, settling her thoughts in her mind before speaking again. She was already getting a headache- this had better be one of her more profitable meetings.

"Let me explain something before we go further," she finally said, blowing out the thick smoke. "I have a business to run here. Calaveras is not a front. It is entwined with everything else I do. In the future, do not come in here and make a scene of yourself and damage the reputation of this place that I have worked very hard to establish.

She inhaled on the cigarette again. Sometimes Meredith was damn well near a chain smoker.

"Now then, is your...cousin, aware of your...specific needs, Philomenes?" Meredith asked, steering the conversation back to business.

The line of Phil’s shoulders stiffened at Nate being such a complete and utter prat. But he lowered himself back down into the leather chair’s embrace without a word or grimace, much more delicately than before. He tossed Nate a warning glance, perhaps, but it was there and gone again in a second. Subliminal message glaring.

“Right right, Miss Renfield. I understand completely. Terrible sorry for the interruption.” Philomenes bowed his head to her.

Whatever Nathan bleeding Briggs wanted from him enough to stalk (that was the only word Phil could conjure up) him in the dead of night couldn’t be good. Or have any benefit what-so-ever for himself. His gaze swung back to Miss Renfield placid and vulnerable as he could manage without transfiguring himself into a fluffy white rabbit right in her chair. (As much as he could while fighting the urge to curse Nate’s mouth eternally sealed, too.)

“Oh, well…” Bashful, then, gaze slipping askance of her under pale lashes. “Nathan being aware of anything is a bit…ah. Touch and go, you understand. I’m not certain if he recalls my proviclivities; his retention seems to fluctuate from day to day.” His mouth curled into a small, sympathetic smile for Nate, before skipping back on topic.

“My ah…dalliances into such things have no effect on his care, mind, if that’s what concerned you. He lives with the family, though he seems to remember me particularly well. Imprinting, and all that, you know…”

Phil’s tongue, for all its drugless fuzz, moved effortlessly quick over the lie. The alacrity was from a combination of things. Part being what teachers used to a call a ‘clever’ boy, part being a mythical creature, and part having used this routine before.

“I don’t wish to waste your important time with little bits like that, though. More specifically? I need – I want tranquilizers of all sorts. Specifically diluted brewing of Living Death, 50 milliliter increments of both the Elixir of Euphoria and the Drought of Peace – or the components of such, I can concoct it myself if need be -- and ah…dried wormwood, powdered asphodel, crushed moonstone, and sopohorous beans."

A strange, hazy gleam passed over Phil’s expression, rattling off that grocery list of someone set on not being completely conscious for the next three months. The kind of look a hungry dog has for only the hand which feeds it.

After a few moments, Philomenes noticed his glazed over expression and shook himself back into here and now. He cast Nate a nervous glance, that…pinged right off his beard and settled deep into Miss Renfield’s floorboards instead. A faint pink twinge had pinched his pale cheeks, hinting at shame. Philomenes cleared his throat, and forced himself to look back up to Miss Renfield. Another sleek smile, something warm and complacent and wanting nothing more than to please.

He’d spent summer months on Oineros Isle with yiayia when he was younger, learning of his Charm and manipulating it. And now he was. He was doing so with one target in mind: Meredith, sitting right in firing range of those pale hooded eyes and gap-toothed grin.

Nate took the class of whiskey with a quiet, "Cheers", but didn't move to sit.  Instead, he stayed standing where he was.  After Meredith Renfield's advice, he downed all the whiskey he'd been served and then vanished the glass.  It made his tummy burn and his limbs warm up.  He did feel better.  What a pleasant witch.

He nodded with proper obedience when Renfield laid down the law - clearly she thought herself merciful with a very italicized this time, and Nate believed it.

Godsdamn Phil, though, if he didn't shut off the faucet.  You had to know when to stop lying and just move the hell on.  Instead of bely his annoyance with the wily Kecklepenny, Nate turned around and meandered around the back of the office, first inspecting a bejeweled skull on the hearth.  He didn't touch; no, he'd learned long ago that touching skulls, decorative or otherwise, was for dummies.  (And considering Renfield's macabre reputation, it might be a relative or someone and he didn't want to offend.)

By the time Philomenes had finally moved from deception into what was it now - hedonism? - Nate's little wandering had brought him round so that he could see Phil's face when he looked up at him.  And for a second all that veneer of confidence and snake-in-the-grassedness that Nate knew and loved was shed for that horrible truth under all of it. 

That's what this was? The stuff he was asking for was much more than recreational.  It was either for the personal use of a giant from the wrong side of the Caucaus mountains.  Or it was enough to be party favors at some thousand-guest be-masked sex and drugs buffet.

"And we'll have it to go..." he added.  And while the words were flip, Nate's tone was dead serious and held a hint of a question for Philomenes.  Some kind of arsenal he wanted - he wasn't intending to dine in, he hoped.

Meredith eyed Nate when the man downed the whiskey in a single shot. Fine whiskey was obviously wasted on that one, it was. It was made to sip, not take as a shot.

She instead turned her intention back to Phil- she knew what the man wanted, if not the exact specifications. She'd handle this one first and then figure out what to do with him. As of now he was a witness, somehow tied to Phil (she still wasn't sure if she fully believed the ill cousin story but she'd let it slide). Meredith disliked witnesses. She preferred accomplices.

Shame Phil was a junkie. He was quiet good with his words, Meredith thought to herself, as she listened to him go on. He was attractive and charismatic enough to do well, more than she initially thought. Maybe he could even with being a junkie. Maybe his cousin- surely it must be his cousin- could help. Surprised at her self, Meredith blinked and took another long drag of her cigarette to clear her head. Careful girl.

She closed her eyes and focused on the list Phil rattled off. Extensive, but thankfully well-detailed. All of that for just him? Dear Lord, but he was even worse than she had originally thought. If he wanted to end up face down in a gutter, surely there were easier and less costly ways.

Meredith opened her eyes just soon enough to catch the hungry look. He didn't look so charming just then. Meredith inhaled on her cigarette again, mentally going through her inventory and staff to figure out how exactly was the best way to accommodate Phil.

She was about to tell him his options when he looked at her. Really looked AT her. Meredith stared back and couldn't see a shadow of the drunken junkie she had first met in the Black Chimera. He looked...young. Young and innocent and oddly handsome. Obviously this one had everything under control. He would have no problem with the doses, coming back or payment. Sweet man. Maybe she could find a place-

And we'll have it to go...

Nate's voice startled Meredith out of her thoughts. She looked at the man and then down at her desk. Her cigarette and burned down a long stretch of ash. Annoyed, Meredith flicked it off into the ash tray and put it out.

"I can do many things, but accommodating a 'to-go' order like that is hardly realistic," she said curtly. "However, we do have a few options," Meredith said, trying to get a handle back on the meeting. She reached into her desk and pulled out a thick folder, opened it and flicked through the pages. It was all encoded of course and illegible to anyone else, even Jess.

"I usually don't carry such complete items on my person or in my stocks due to their sensitive nature, but I can have the order in its entirety completed and delivered within a couple of days. I have a potion master I trust to do the job well," she said, looking very pointedly at the notebook and not Phil. "The cheapest way would be to get you your raw ingredients, but you'll have to decide where your own potion making skills stand. If you really need it soon-" she glanced again at Nate. "That can be arranged, but they'll be a rush fee and I can't guarantee the quality would be up to your standards."

She paused and looked up at Phil again. "Your order...I trust you know how to use the items. I wouldn't want to find you ending up in a ditch somewhere," she said. "It would make me feel like my time was wasted and I wouldn't have the pleasure of doing business with you again."

There we go, Mer. Nice and sweetlike. Phil was certainly making it easy to be sweet too. Even after a bit of zoning out on her part, he was still smiling that innocent little smile. She's get him his drugs. Maybe even some new clothes so he wouldn't be dressed like such a gutter rat the next time he came in.

"And what of you, Nate, is it?" Meredith said. "Can I interest you in placing an order?"

She still wanted to know why he was here, besides following Phil.

Bless mana, bless yiayia, bless the sirens, bless Calypso, bless every nymph and dryad to ever flaunt her dirty bits about the Greek countryside. It had worked. Maybe Meredith Renfield wasn’t the kind of woman to be pulling the blushing sparkly wool over the eyes of, but…

It had worked. Strange thing, that. Mystifying.

Phil’s smile broadened, the charm’s heaviness thickening under the pleasure showing on his face. The scent of seaspray, pale flowers, and white musk flickered through the room then, as if someone had poured an aquatic perfume into an oil burner. It cut through the sugar, smoke, and thick blooming roses  of Calaveras like a very pretty knife. That funny cloud hemmed at Phil’s vision again, and he rubbed his eyes. Not that it helped a bit.

“You really are wonderful. Best woman living, cannibal queen or otherwise. You can chop me up whenever you like, Miss Renfield. Cheers.” He toasted his amber glass to Meredith, and took a dainty sip of the whiskey. It was fine and sleek and burned his lips, coaxing his smile to widen. "And worry not about the speed of it. I'll be more than pleased to purchase whatever reagents you have on hand, but waiting for delivery of the rest is quite satisfactory."

A small bit of him wanted to snipe at Nate for treating it like a bottle of the moose urine beer he was surely used to, but he managed to bite down that inclination with a tight smile instead. His pale gaze slid to Nate, and he cocked his head curiously, feigning perfect interest even though all he really wanted to do was go chew him out – somewhere far, far from here.

“Right, right Nate. Whatever did you want, anyhow?”

The thing about Phil's veela glamour was that Nate didn't know it had happened until it was over.  On a few occasions in the past, on some bender in some pub, Nate was wont to smack Philomenes in the mouth once the brief charm faded.  ("Quit that, goddamn wanker...!" Chuckle chuckle, hur hur.)  Nate was married to a witch and generally swung hard in that direction; however, clearly something in Nate was bi-curious considering the pull the charm muster in him.  Phil claimed he couldn't control it, but Nate suspected otherwise.

So with Renfield taking them both at their word, Nate let those two work out the details of Phil's new grocery list.  Renfield seemed happy.  Philomenes seemed happy.  All a delightful turn of events considering their feelings five minutes ago.

And then it was eyes to the party crasher.  He shook his head and shrugged.  He was leaning against the wall again, but straightened up to mosey back to the desk and chairs.

"No."

He shook his head, and sat down, finally.

"Money." 

Money was what he wanted.  And a steady trickle of it, if at all possible.  He'd come after Philomenes this night with that general motivation - Phil had connections.  Nathan Briggs used to have connections, but that had all gone up in smoke, like so much of his skin on his shoulders, arms and chest that night.  With old Sellaphix facing Azkaban, his partner making his termination in no ways unclear, and the very rankling reputation that had been following around ("Oh, that's the one what blew up the Alley and got Sellaphix sent to Azkaban Prison.  Ew.") Nathan Briggs was no longer a man with connections.

"Something steady.  Prefer if your butler wasn't allowed to hit me anymore, but other than that, I think you'll find that I'm smarter and prettier than anyone else you've already got.  Your butler included."

He shrugged.  Phil's glass was on the desk with a bit left in the bottom; Nate seized upon it with a swipe and drank up the last of it.  He hadn't come in here looking for a job.  But now that the notion had crept into his head, he'd leave here with one, bet your bollocks.

"Can't provide references though, so you'll just have to trust me."  Poor old Sellaphix.

"Careful what you wish for," Meredith told Phil, a tiny smirk on her lips as a hand absentmindedly twirled one of her clever earrings.

"I can get you your first installment within, oh four days sounds about right," Meredith said, "You'll come in for lunch and get a VIP treatment because you won one of our monthly drawings. You'll also have all the payment with you that day."

She wasn't terribly surprised that Phil had gone into great detail about what exactly he as looking for and didn't ask price. He was a junkie. He'd pay with his pretty head of hair and clothes off his back if he was like some of the ones she'd seen. Just in case, she'd probably have Frankie or Jess be the ones doing the actual transaction. Frankie loved no one but the Calaveras girls and none of them romantically. Jess was...well, Jess. And both had a good amount of people skills and intimidation factor. And Meredith was still not sure why she was looking at a junkie like she had been looking at Phil. It bothered her that it didn't bother her. One of her first rules as never take business home.

As for Nate, well he didn't fit the look of the junkie, unless he was brand new. But apparently he wasn't. Meredith was almost glad. If Nate was a junkie she'd have he start of a damn drug kitchen queue.

When he said money, Meredith's first thought went to a loan and the coffers of Calaveras and Spellpunk. Doable. With the right interest rate of course. Ah. No. He wasn't something a little more honest (depending on the position and definition).

"I'd be careful what you call Jess. She is extremely talented at what she does and if you're on staff you likely ill have to report to her and she's not as nice with new employees as patrons."

She paused and sipped her whiskey, studying Nate. "Don't worry about references. I'll find them on my own. I'm more interested in what exactly you want to do and where your talents lie. You'll need a bit of a clean up, first. Unless you fancy a steady line of work in the kitchen. Not a bad job, but a pretty face like yours might do better with a little more live human interaction."

“Oh my yes, Nate is terrifically pretty.”

Philomenes’ voice was pleasant enough, but that didn’t stop the frown curling his lips. Or the mean little pinch to his eyes. Wanted to borrow money? From him? He really was fond of Nate, kind of like the way you keep a dog even though it likes pissing on your shoes. It’s not that…he wouldn’t kick Nate some change on principal.

He’d crashed in Nate’s flat when money was short and hidden stolen merch in his closet (with and without consent) and puked on his lap at least twice and tried to mess about with his wife at least once. He owed it to the sod, really. Phil just fiscally couldn’t, seeing as he’d just…signed most of his earnings away to Meredith Renfield.

“And…I’d say you can trust him, Miss Renfield. He cleans up terribly nice, and he’s really quite charming once you get past the beard. If he fails you, feel free to Obliviate him and send him back home to me. Anytime you like. I…oh, well. I suppose there’s the trouble of him finding my flat…I’ll come and collect him personally, then.” He bowed his pale head to Meredith, and paused to take another drink of whiskey. He’d need it, to steal his next words.

“Reference or not, I…” he licked his lips, hesitant, “you can hold me personally accountable, if he does anything to displease while in your service.”

The way he said it just oozed sentiment, so confident and somber Phil really, really, really wished he could believe it too. He shot Nate a glance under the veil of his lashes, the silent way of saying something that was a mixture of Don’t bollocks this up and Jaysus Christ, you owe me so much.