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(A/N: I hope everyone give my new novel Skyrim a chance and added it to their library, also give the power stones on Skyrim!)
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He looked around the room, his eyes seeing the failures he had lived with for years. "It doesn't generate much profit. Barely enough to keep the lights on. It's in the slums, sir. Security is bad, hell, it's non existent. People always have a drunk fight inside the tavern, breaking furniture, scaring off paying customers. It's a money pit. It's… it's a dump."
Caleb just let out a smile, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table. "That," he said, "is my business. The why is for me to worry about. You should be asking yourself... shouldn't you be happy someone finally wants to take this dump off your hands?"
Doyle blinked, the logic penetrating his fear. He looked at the leaking ceiling, then back at Caleb. He nodded his head like a chicken pecking at corn. "Yes. Yes, sir. I suppose I should be. I've wanted out of this place for many years."
"Then let's talk numbers," Caleb said, leaning forward. "Since it's like that, what is the price you would be asking for the ownership of the building and your entire supply of liquor?"
Doyle swallowed hard. He was being asked to price his livelihood, however meager it was. His mind, addled by shock and the lingering influence of Caleb's Persuasion Skill, scrambled for a figure. He stammered, his eyes darting around. "Well... let me think. The building is old, but the land... and the stock... I suppose..."
He hesitated, clearly afraid to name a figure that might anger the bounty hunter.
Caleb cut through the hesitation. "I'm a fair man, Doyle. By my estimation, looking at the structural integrity, the inventory, and the land value..." He paused for effect. "It should be around 3,000 dollars, give or take. For the total of the building and your supply."
Doyle's jaw dropped. Three thousand dollars. It was a fortune. It was enough to move out of the slums, maybe even move out of Saint Denis entirely. He had expected Caleb to offer five hundred, maybe a thousand.
Influenced by Caleb's max level Persuasion and Acting Skill, which projected an aura of absolute fairness and finality, Doyle didn't even think to haggle. The number sounded right. It sounded generous. It sounded like freedom.
"Three thousand..." Doyle breathed. "Yes. Yes! I feel the price is reasonable, sir. More than reasonable. I am happy to have this dump be taken out of my hands for that amount."
"Excellent," Caleb said.
"So," Doyle asked, his voice trembling with excitement now, "when do you want to finalize the payment and transfer of ownership?"
"Can we do it today?" Caleb asked, his gaze intense. "Right now. Does you have the deed of ownership of the building with you currently?"
Doyle nodded his head vigorously. "I do! I keep it safe. Stored upstairs in my room in a safe. It's the only valuable thing in the house."
"Go and fetch it," Caleb instructed, pointing toward the stairs. "I will have the payments ready for you when you get back."
Doyle didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled up from the chair and practically ran up the rickety stairs, the sound of his heavy footsteps thudding against the floorboards.
Caleb sat alone in the dim tavern. He opened his interface.
He withdrew three stacks of bills, each bound tightly. Three thousand dollars. He placed them neatly on the table, the greenbacks contrasting sharply with the scarred wood.
A moment later, Doyle returned, breathless, clutching a yellowed envelope and a heavy ring of iron keys. He hurried to the table and placed them down, his eyes instantly drawn to the money, his jaw dropping at the sight of the cash just sitting there in the open. "Saints preserve us…"
"This is it," Doyle said, getting this focus back and pushing the envelope forward. "The deed. Signed and stamped. And this... this is all of the keys to the place. Front door, cellar, back room, safe."
Caleb picked up the envelope, checking the contents, it was a fragile looking document transferring ownership of a "wooden structure and lot" in the Saint Denis slums, briefly to ensure it was legitimate. It was. He slid the keys into his pocket and gestured to the cash.
"And this is the money," Caleb said. "Three thousand. Count it if you like."
Doyle shook his head. "I trust you, Mr. McLaughlin." He reached out and touched the money, almost reverently. "Thank you. Thank you."
"Now," Caleb said, his tone shifting slightly, becoming more business like. "Don't you spend all of it in one place, Doyle."
"I won't, sir. I promise." Doyle looked at the keys in Caleb's pocket, a sudden realization hitting him. "But... I suppose I need to leave now? Tonight?"
Caleb watched him. "You need a job, right? Or are you planning to retire on three thousand dollars?"
Doyle scratched the back of his neck. "Well, this money is enough to last me and my family for a while, sure. But... we need a new place to stay since you are buying this building. I hadn't thought that far ahead."
Caleb leaned back, crossing his arms. "How about you don't leave?"
Doyle looked confused. "Sir?"
"How about you come and work for me?" Caleb proposed. "As the bartender. And not just the bartender. You keep acting as the owner."
Doyle frowned, trying to wrap his head around the concept. "Act as the owner?"
"I will be a shadow owner," Caleb explained. "On paper, to the city, to the patrons, and to the gangs... you still own Doyle's Tavern. You run the day to day. You pour the drinks. You yell at the drunks. But I own the deed. I make the decisions."
Caleb gestured to the dilapidated room. "And this building will be renovated by me as well. I'm going to fix the roof, clean the floors, stock better liquor. We're going to make this place respectable—or at least, profitable."
"You want me to stay..." Doyle said slowly, a smile beginning to creep onto his face. "And you'll pay me?"
"You will be paid handsomely, of course," Caleb said. "A weekly salary, plus a cut of the profits once we're in the black. And you get to keep your room upstairs for you and your family."
Doyle looked at Caleb, then at the money, then at the tavern. He was getting the sale price, keeping his home, and getting a salary to do the job he'd been doing for twenty years, but with a boss who had the money to actually fix the place. It was the deal of a lifetime.
"Mr. McLaughlin," Doyle said, extending his hand, "you've got yourself a bartender."
Caleb shook the man's hand. The grip was firm.
"Good," Caleb said. "Now, go upstairs and get some sleep, Doyle. Tomorrow, we start work. I'm going to turn this place into something useful."
As Doyle gathered his money and headed upstairs, looking lighter than he had in years, Caleb remained at the table for a moment.
Caleb smiled. The slums now had eyes, and those eyes belonged to him. He stood up, adjusted his hat, and walked out into the night, the deed resting heavy and promising in his inventory.
The night air of Saint Denis was thick with humidity and the distant wail of a tugboat as Caleb stepped out of Doyle's Tavern.
The weight of the deed in his inventory felt less like paper and more like a cornerstone. He had planted a flag in the mud of the slums, a silent conquest that neither Bronte nor Cornwall would see coming until it was too late.
He mounted Morgan, the horse shifting restlessly under him, sensing the change in her rider's energy. Caleb patted her neck, a grounding gesture for both of them.
"Let's go, girl," he murmured. "Back to the Bastille."
He steered her away from the shadows of the industrial district, guiding her back toward the gas lit avenues of the city center. The transition was always jarring, from the smell of open sewage and desperation to the scent of jasmine and expensive perfume.
As he rode, his mind was already constructing the next phase. Buying the tavern was the easy part, transforming it without tipping his hand was the challenge.
When he reached back to the Bastille, the saloon was in full swing. He dismounted, hitching Morgan to the post with a practiced knot, ensuring she had enough slack to be comfortable but not enough to wander.
He dusted off his coat, composing his features into the mask of the weary but successful bounty hunter, and pushed through the double doors.
Inside the saloon, the rich and fancy patrons already filled the space, a sea of velvet, silk, and cigar smoke. The air was alive with the clinking of crystal and the murmur of a hundred conversations, all underscored by the fancy piano tune filling the room up.
The pianist was playing a lively ragtime number, his fingers dancing over the ivory keys. Working girls, elegant in their satin dresses and feathered hairpieces, moved through the crowd like colorful birds, accompanying their patrons with practiced laughter or playing hard to get to amuse the men who thought they were in control.
Caleb wove through the patrons, his height and the dangerous aura he projected parting the crowd like the prow of a ship.
"Mr. McLaughlin!" a voice called out, a wealthy merchant raising a glass.
"The hero of the docks! Welcome back!" A portly wine merchant raised his glass from a nearby table. "Heard you were in the city. Settling any more scores for us?"
Caleb nodded his head to them, offering small, tight smiles that acknowledged the praise without inviting conversation. He wasn't here for them. He reached the polished mahogany counter, where Ezra was busy polishing a glass, his movements efficient and rhythmic.
Caleb leaned against the bar, signaling for a water. As Ezra poured it, Caleb leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to be private but not conspiratorial. He activated his max level Persuasion and Acting Skill, pitching his tone perfectly, casual, slightly bored, just a man looking to offload a task.
"Ezra," Caleb said, taking a sip of the water. "I need a bit of local knowledge. I've got... let's call it a favor I owe to an acquaintance. He's got a property that needs work. Building, some light renovation. Nothing too fancy, but it needs to be done right."
He swirled the water in his glass, watching the liquid spin. "He asked me if I knew anyone reliable. Not expensive, necessarily, but skilled. You know the type, good with their hands, honest work."
Ezra paused in his polishing, his brow furrowing slightly as he considered the request. "Well, Mr. McLaughlin, the boss... he usually uses a specific crew for his properties. There is a couple of skilled construction workers, crafters, and laborers that the Bastille is in contact with through the boss. They aren't that expensive, either."
Caleb mulled it over for a moment, keeping his expression neutral. Inwardly, however, he immediately rejected the idea. 'Too dangerous,' he thought. 'Using people with connections to Bronte is a direct line back to the mansion.'
If Bronte's men worked on Doyle's, they would report the job. They would mention the location. They would mention the sudden influx of cash.
And while the only one who currently knew the truth was Doyle, the patrons that he and Doyle had forced out earlier could say Doyle had a suspicious conversation with McLaughlin before the renovation started.
If Bronte heard that "McLaughlin's favor" was renovating a slum tavern where McLaughlin was seen kicking out drunks... the math was too easy to do.
Caleb shook his head gently. "I'd rather avoid the boss's men for this, Ezra. It's not official work under him, and I don't want to bother him with petty favors I'm doing for a friend. It's... personal business. A debt I'm settling on the quiet side."
Ezra nodded understandingly. "I get you, sir. Keep business and... other business separate."
"Exactly," Caleb said. "So, is there anyone else? Maybe someone hungry for work? Someone outside the usual circles?"
Ezra's face brightened. "Actually, yes. There's a couple of my friends, actually. Good men. They've been looking for some job for a while now. They are pretty handy with their hands, carpentry, masonry, a bit of everything. They have experience working in some constructions downtown before they got laid off when the new foreman brought in his own crew."
Caleb smiled, the expression genuine. "That sounds perfect. But I have to ask, can they follow instructions? And most importantly, can they be trusted to keep their mouths shut? My acquaintance... he values his privacy. He doesn't want the whole neighborhood knowing his business."
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Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 2)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 2)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 4)
- Bow (Lvl 3)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 4)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 3)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl 3)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 1)
- Leadership (Lvl 1)
Money: 3,370 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 254,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 70 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, & 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern
Bank: -