Previously3
The Dealmore Casino had a distinct smell. Mother Narine Getskilled identified this smell as one of cheap leather, spilt liquor, crisp bills, excitement, fear, and shattered dreams. The smell went deeper than that though, undertones of the individual scents of the occupants wafted through: Sweat, urine, a faint note of bad breath, as though the great lobby was haunted by ghosts who, in their ethereal way, had just woken up after a long night of rib-eating contests. Beyond all this, on the edge of the great sensory perseption of smell, was an incredible undertone of false pretenses. The false pretenses of the bored husbands who pretend to be high rollers, of the young women at the bars who leave their bands of gold at home, and the false pretense of the proprietors themselves. It was this last scent, the bass chord of this olfactory opus, that Narine savored the most. It gave her knowledge and reassurance that this was the right place, and that the people she needede to see were to be found here. And then a minimum-wage middle-aged woman, dressed in the red-vested janitorial-staff uniform, walked by spraying Febreze and it was gone.
Narine, having absolutely no respect for the scent of Febreze or what it did to the wonderful world of aroma, bought 500 dollars worth of chips and walked over to the Craps table. Seven elevens later, she felt (correctly) that she had one enough money to attract the attention of the illustrious owners of the establishment. Before she could say "Plot Hole!" she was whisked away to the south tower penthouse and introduced to one Virtu Malaise. "There's a great story." Virtu said to her, borrowing a large wooden bat from his associate. His associated was a large black man, whom the average person would never call anything less respectful than "African American" despite the fact that he wasn't remotely African, the color in his skin actually attributed to an Australian Aboriginal ancestry. Still, he was imposing enough that, despite it being his name, one would fear that calling him by the word "Black" might not be politically correct enough, and by politically correct enough, I mean it might make you head a target for his large token baseball bat.
"Eh?" Mother Narine felt a bit unsettled by the pause that Virtu had taken in order for the author to accurately describe his associate.
"A great story I like to tell the people I've caught as I have you." He continued, unapologetically, "Years ago a young journalist, whom we'll call Brian, wrote an expose about how this casino is rigged. He was very correct in his analysis, and we even helped on a few of the isssues he was unclear about (mainly our exact manner in extracting debts, which he studied astutely). At any rate, we did not punish Brian for his expose, and in fact it did not harm our business one bit. Brian himself was found returning regularly to our establishment and on such an occasion I accosted him. I asked him 'Brian, you know our games are crooked, so why do you keep coming here?' His answer was as profound as it was depressing: 'Sure they may be crooked, but they're the only games in town.' "
Narine reflected on this for a moment, really thought about with as much consideration as possible, finally she asked, "What in Asgard does that have to do with me cheating on your rigged games?"
"Nothing really. Except this: Everyone knows they're rigged, even you do, so what makes you think you could cheat the cheaters?"
"I didn't, I just wanted an excuse to talk to you."
Virtu Malaise was stunned, along with impressed. He began to take her seriously at that moment. "In that case," He said, "Mother Getskilled, pleased be seated."
She took her seat and asked one last question, "So, does our journalist friend still make appearances?"
"Brian? No, he was banned a while back for betting the right to wear certain articles of clothing. Not really our thing, we only deal in money here." With that, they got down to business.
Reply
Police Commissioner Jane Gorgon walked through the grand entrance of the DealMore, briefcase in tow. She crossed quickly to the gleaming brass elevators at the far end of the show room, ignoring the temptations of the slots and cards that had gotten her into this situation in the first place. It seems that her greed had landed her far enough in the hole that she could be commanded to do things for other motivations than cold hard cash. Motivations strong enough, even, to make her give up cold hard cash in return for her own life. Whoever this mysterious man was that that snake Mik Lugubri was working for, he at least appreciated irony. She pushed the elevator for the penthouse, where she found Mik in a lavishly decorated room, alone.