Dapper Dealings

Keith drummed his fingers on the table in front of him, wishing the new buyer would hurry up and get here already.

Ratataptap. Ratataptap. Ratataptap.

Luckily, the Three Broomsticks was its usual busy self. Contrary to popular belief, the famous bar thrived not only in the cold of winter but during weather extremes of any kind. The summer was rapidly progressing into a hot, humid mess, driving overheated, thirsty wizards to the cool drinks and magical air conditioning of the Three Broomsticks.

Ratataptap. Ratataptap. Ratataptap.

His "usual" sat in front of him - a butterbeer and a steak sandwich. Now that the Spice buisness was hitting its groove Keith found himself in the Three Broomsticks at least once a week - he now knew all the waiters and waitresses by name. They knew him as Keith, the clever little boy who always came to study and interview all sorts of people in preparation for a spectacular nonfiction account of life in modern magical Britain.

Ratataptap. Ratataptap. Ratataptap.

But something was eating at Keith. His "usual" remain untouched. At first he had simply put it down to nerves - he was sitting in a rather crowded bar with a backpack full of drugs after all - but he did this all the time and rarely was he this worked up. It was something else.

Ratataptap. Ratataptap. Ratataptap.

There was a new group of laws being pushed through the Ministry today - laws that would, in no uncertain terms, outlaw the use or sale of Spice and impose heavy penalties to those caught doing so. Keith had researched magical drug laws very thoroughly before he had begun selling his invention, and he had always managed to reassure himself whenever things got hairy by remembering that since Spice was so new it technically wasn't yet illegal. It fell under "Category Three addictive substances" of course, but a really good lawyer could get you out of that and Keith had enough money for a very good lawyer. But the new laws would change that.

Ratataptap. Ratataptap. Ratataptap.

Christ, the hadn't the client heard of showing up on time?

Ratataptap. Ratataptap. Ratataptap.
Ratataptap. Ratataptap. Ratataptap.
Ratataptap. Ratataptap. Ratataptap.

Many a sleepless evening had rendered his ordinarily electric blues a pair of dreary teal marbles, sunken inward and cast in the shadow of the darker tones that existed above and below their rims. Those eyes which presently viewed the summer-swept town of Hogsmeade through the tint of a particularly concealing pair of sunglasses, which had been a necessary precaution whilst in the presence of his flatmate, the likes of whom had taken to investigating such displays of his depression with unpracticed concern.

Thus, Nemo had disappeared beneath the simple aviator glasses before he had fled from their shared household, with his traditional military jacket pulled protectively against his needle-pocked arms and his enchanted flask held loosely at his side. “I’m going to be late,” Nemo informed the streets impassively as he maneuvered throughout Hogsmeade’s population, knocking on occasion into a unfamiliar shoulder or unintentionally connecting the steel toe of his boot with the foot of another.

“Oi!”

“Yeah,” Nemo regarded the complaint’s conductor, who appeared a vague blur of sun bathed skin as he proceeded down the street towards the Three Broomsticks. “Mate –“ Nemo took an impatient swig from his flask as he stepped around a second agitated stranger, to whom he mockingly responded, “No thanks.”

Nemo thrust his shoulder halfheartedly against the pub’s door in a hasty retreat from those whom he’d angered, stepping across the cooler environment's threshold. “Anyone got a smoke?” He inquired in a half-shout intended to reach the ears of all who lined the bar as he stowed in his pocket his sunglasses. "Sorry I'm late," He added for his dealer's sake in the hope of speeding along the identification process, despite the blatant sign that was his appearance.

Nemo was the picture of misery.

"Sorry I'm late," said the man who had just barged into the restaurant looking about two steps away from homelessness.

Fantastic. Keith grimaced. He got all different types in looking for Spice, especially now that he had made the far cheaper, far less dangerous Sugar. Rich men in suits and expensive robes? They didn't make anyone nervous or suspicious. People like this guy? The Three Broomstick's staff asked pointed questions about the type of people he was associating with.

"I need to talk to everyone," Keith would tell them. "How else do I get the full picture of Magical Britain?"

And they would accept that, but every time somebody with ratty clothes and gaunt cheeks stepped in, their questions would be a little more pointed. Still, Keith didn't mind as long as the galleons were flowing.

"It's no problem," Keith called across the room, motioning for the man to take a seat across from him. "I'm K," he said as the man sat down, extending a hand to shake. "K" was the moniker he had given himself when doing these things - better to use code names. Kept things impersonal, kept people off your back. Keith had learned a lot since he had first started. This was one of them. "So, what are you looking for exactly?"

A near woman withdrew a cigarette from the pack that lay beside her drink atop the bar, holding it aloft in offering. "Thanks," Nemo mumbled as he took it from her extended hand, to which he received a nod that he understood to mean Sure. Not a problem. He perched the cigarette between his lazily parted lips and held it there, content for the brief moment to allow it to remain idle as his eyes swayed towards the young lad who had answered his apology.

"Kay, K," Nemo deadpanned as he joined the boy at his table. Absently, he accepted the hand that had been offered to him, unintentionally revealing the burn marks that blackened his digits as the pair shook. He was not particularly fond of fire - nor cigarettes, but both served their purpose in assisting Nemo with his craving for another scar; another organ damaged. The greeting came to its conclusion and Nemo fished with his freed hand through a pocket for his wand. "Mmm," He hummed against the cigarette as a method of informing 'K' that he intended to answer his inquiry shortly whilst he lit it and took a greedy drag.

After a moment's pause, Nemo rested his flask on the table and spoke up once more. "Both. As much as you'll willingly give me," He requested flatly with the day's wagers in mind. His newly acquired position with the Ministry was far more agreeable with his vices. So much so, in fact, that he needn't spend his rent on such supply runs - though he wholeheartedly intended to try.

"Both. As much as you'll willingly give me,"

Keith struggled to keep the surprise off his face and failed, his eyebrows shooting up and vanishing into his bangs. "You sure about that? I don't deal the shit you find on the streets from some thick necked idiot who couldn't brew his way out a paper bag. This stuff doesn't come cheap."

He removed one small vial of Spice from his pocket and passed it to the man under the table. "That is the kind of stuff you can expect from me. Go ahead, look, but don't be an idiot about it. See that silver? This the real stuff, alright? But if you've got the money, more power to you."

He tapped the briefcase that lay on the table next to him. It was small, black, and unassuming, with a rusty silver handle. "I have ten pre-rolled cigs of Sugar in here. It isn't the really intense stuff, but you gotta start somewhere, you know? Three galleons per cig, thirty galleons total. As for Spice, there's five vials right under the cigs. This is about the max I usually carry at once, but if you're willing to fork over the money I can bring more next time. The vials are six galleons each, so another thirty. That's sixty galleons and you walk away with everything in the briefcase. I don't know how fast you'll burn through this stuff, but this much usually lasts my customers a while. Inside the briefcase you'll find a blank buisness card. Just burn it when you want to meet again. I'll get in contact with you and we'll set up a time and place."

He checked his watch. "I have another meeting soon, so if you could make this decision quick that would be best for both of us."

Oh he so nailed that speech. He was such a damn badass. So cool. So cool.

Nemo followed the lines of K’s eyebrows as they crept upward, and he allowed himself an incredulous roll of his eyes, exhaling a spent breath of smoke through his nose. The kid had been awfully quick to assume that Nemo was an average client. But everyone always was.

“That will never work,” Nemo grumbled to himself as he cast the small vial a glance, turning it over in a fleeting moment of frustration beneath the table’s cover. He had a tolerance to account for, after all; a tolerance which he grew entirely too aware of under such circumstances. His troubles flared to life across his face in a glint of something explosive.

Nemo curled his fist around the vial that he’d been passed and nodded haltingly. “Sixty,” He repeated in agreement, whilst his subconscious chimed, Fifty! It was a matter of fact; the rattling of his pockets could attest that he possessed the money he had claimed to - fifty of which belonged to him. McDonald won’t notice. She would be furious.

“Yeah – yeah, I have it.” Nemo pocketed the vial, exchanging it in a fluent roll of his knuckles for a tattered sack of coins, which he held steadily out of view. “It’s been a pleasure doing bussiness with ya, kid,” He spoke drearily past his cigarette.