Chapter Text
In the heart of downtown Los Santos, stands a little jazz club called the Sanguine Rose. A little dive bar all dolled up into a classy looking joint. You didn’t go to the Sanguine Rose if you valued your life. It was like a time machine for the regulars, back to the golden era of crime. When the mafia was at its heyday, and crime was committed face-to-face. Not behind screens like the youth today.
Inside the fake art deco building, on a stage in front of the dining room, a single spotlight beams down on a singer. Her curls pinned tightly to her head. Her dress much too sexy for the decade the building emulated. Her voice backed up by a piano. A handsome man with long black hair tied back in a pony tail, and wearing a modern suit sat at the keyboard. His baritone voice occasionally accompanying duets.
Both sets of eyes glued to a table in the middle of the crowded smokey room, where two men wait. One of them is a slum lord, renting out properties to poor folk who couldn’t live in the better parts of town, and jacking up rent prices whenever he pleased. The other forces the tenants to buy “Insurance” to keep their homes safe from damage or theft, or they would brake things, like windows and knee caps, until the scared tenant bought the insurance.
The two men watch the door, waiting.
As the singer announces the next song, Someone to Watch Over Me, two men walk in. One in a white and gold suit. Golden sunglasses fixed to his face despite the dimly lit atmosphere. The other tall, dark, and handsome, wearing a nice tux and a winning grin. The pair make a beeline to the center table, placing a suitcase in front of the waiting men.
“Here’s the list you wanted, Love,” the man in the gold suit says, a fading British accent still on his lips. “All the MIA soldiers you could want. Not a one declared dead.”
“Perfect for fake credit cards,” the taller man says.
“Thank you,” the slumlord says taking the suitcase and pulling out the flash drive contained inside. He nudges his Insurance Enforcer who pulls out a laptop to test the information there and then. “We have made a slight change, however, how’s about we pay you cash?”
“No!” a deep voice pierces through clear communicators in their ears. “If they pay you cash, I can’t trace it, and drain their accounts.” Across the street from the Sanguine Rose, a pay-by-the-hour motel.
In room 401 of that motel, a tall man sits hunched over a computer watching security footage from the club, keeping an eye on center table, and keeping an eye out for any other enforcers the slumlord might have brought with him. Standing over him is a man, wearing a rumpled tuxedo and a gaudy mustache, very over-dressed for a motel room, says “Tell them that you’ve had other offers.”
A short waiter, stops by the center table to take the men’s drink order during the slight pause. The buyers, are quick to dismiss the waiter, but the man in the gold suit asks for a rum and coke, and flashes eyes to the short man. Acting like a shameless flirt.
“We’ve had other offers, and the price has gone up,” the tall man says after the waiter leaves. “Fifty percent more.”
“Fifty percent!” the slumlord nearly shouts.
The enforcer puts a hand on his shoulder, “Maybe we should just pay them.”
“They’re crooks! These two are crooks! Upping the price at the deal! I’ve never heard such a thing.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” the man in the gold suit says calmly. “There’s no need to start throwing accusations around, now. If you don’t want to make the deal, we can take our information and go elsewhere.”
The slumlord looks at his computer, and notices that the man in the golden suit had taken the flash drive back while he wasn’t looking. “Fine.” The slumlord isn’t happy with feeling played. He takes out his phone and wires the money to a special account set up for this transaction.
The tall man holds his hand out for a handshake and to hand back over the flash drive, but the slumlord grabs him and yanks him close, and pulls out a knife.
You, the singer, who had been keeping a close eye on the transaction, ends the song quickly, “My pianist is parched, and I need his voice refreshed for this next song. Can I get a whiskey up here for him?” He doesn’t drink, but only four people in the room know that. Two are at the table with the slumlord. And two waiters, who drop whatever they were in the middle of and rush to the center table, where their boss is being threatened with a knife.
A man with curly, red hair and a baby face steps up behind the slumlord, a knife of his own presses against the slumlord’s back. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the curly-haired man snarls into the land owner’s ear.
You hadn’t been the only ones to bring back up in case the deal went south. An enforcer who’d been hiding in the crowd comes up from behind the Golden Boy. “Gavin!” The short waiter warns. Gavin turns around quickly and ducks out of the way, letting the enforcer attack the table, knocking over several glasses of alcohol.
A bar fight at the Sanguine Rose is nothing unheard of and most patrons remain unfazed to the sudden violence that had erupted in the middle of the dining room. However, the nearby tables had been filled with the slumlord’s goons, making the fight larger than any of you were hoping for.
You and your pianist abandon your post to join the fight and get your boss and grifter out of the club safely. “Fredo!” you yell into your communicator. “Did you get everything you need? Can we try to bail?”
“I drained the account, and the virus should be spreading through the laptop and all attached accounts now,” the man who’d been hunched over the computer tells them as he packs up his kit to get out of the motel ASAP.
“Get everyone out of there now!” The mustachioed man’s voice cracks as he bails with Alfredo. “Jack is already waiting by the front entrance, and Lindsay is out back.”