From: kiasyd@umich.edu (Jake Baker)
Date: Fri, 07 Jan 1994 21:31:13 -0500

Unlimited Profit Margin, Part 3.
Chicago.

The plane that bore the renegade Garou Gerald Grex and his newly acquired
fetish landed at Chicago O'Hare International airport a little after
nightfall. The Boeing he had taken since Miami had been a vast improvement
over the little twin-engine he had flown in ever since leaving South
America. There were things happening down there he didn't like, and he was
just as glad to leave that miserable land in one piece.

He moved off the plane with the normal crowed of airplane goers: the
foreign student, fumbling over a map; a married woman, her husband, and
their baby - Gerald leered at her, pleased with her reaction of loathing,
fantasizing about ripping into her right now, and destroying the "cuteness"
of the white middle class family forever. But then, he thought better of
it.

There was also that annoying little old lady who couldn't manage a pace of
more than two steps per minute, and Gerald was equally pleased to hurry her
along, picking her up in one massive arm, and then depositing her in the
reception area, walking quickly away from the terrified woman's yells and
curses with a broad beam on his face.

Yes, life, for a change, was going quite well for Gerald Grex. In his
carry-on bag, the only luggage he had, lay the wyrm fetish he had so
struggled to procure. The enigmatic bird who had been invaluable in
retrieving it for him was forgotten from his mind. Right now, Gerald didn't
have time for enigmas - he was too anxious to get to a safehouse and figure
out how this fetish worked.

Gerald was so enraptured within his own thoughts that he almost failed to
notice the lean, pale man standing up against one wall near the exit.
Gerald had taken one step past him, when the man remarked, "You got the
time, q'tchan?"

Gerald stopped, turned, immediately suspicious. There were few people
outside his tribe who knew that he had indeed been raised among the
Chippewa Indians. He did not look Indian in the least. Matter-of-fact, he
had actually been adopted by the Indians, raised as one of theirs, but
obviously not one. The thing that Gerald regretted most of all in this
world was that he never knew his father. Sometimes at night, before, he
would stand outside the pack's den, and just howl at the moon, cursing God,
Gaia, whoever was listening, that he never knew his father.

But his immediate concern was with the man who had spoken to him. He
turned, guarded. He looked at the man. He was long, thin, with spare,
balding, black hair, but a young face. He was, however, overly pale, and
his eyes, which he quickly covered with dark sunglasses, were red.

"T'q'chan," Gerald replied in turn, "I'm sorry, but I don't have a watch.
You might try the clock on the wall,"

The man grinned. "Funny. Very funny. Either you are Gerald Grex, or I am
a..."

"Pleased to meet you, Gerald," Gerald said hastily, swinging his massive
arm about the man's thin neck and shoulders, growling deep down in his
throat. "Let's go somewhere we can talk privately,"

"Ah, my car is just out this way..."

"I don't like cars,"

He led the man out of the airport doors, and away from the parking lot.  He
hurried them along, but did not speak. Whenever the surprised and somewhat
ruffled man tried to speak, Gerald muttered "Shut up," in a voice such that
left no question but that he was to be obeyed. They walked thus for a mile,
and somewhere near an abandoned junkyard, on a wide street, with no-one
about, and no-one else around that Gerald's fine senses could detect, they
stopped. Gerald swiveled the man around to face him, held him tight by his
shoulders at arms length.

"OK. What's going on. How do you know my name? What do you want with me. Be
quick about it, or you'll soon be missing your head,"

"Eh, eh..." started the obviously frazzled man, "My name is Don Pratchell,
and I work for Lodin, you might have heard of him..." The man took Gerald's
growl to mean he didn't care, "Some friends of mine told me you'd be
arriving at the airport today, and that you'd need a safe place to stay.
I'd be willing to provide a place - nice, secure - if you'd do a little job
for me first,"

"What?"

"Off someone,"

"Who?"

"Ah, I won't tell you that until I know we have a deal,"

"What do I get in return?"

"Ten thousand dollars, cash, and a place to stay," he held up a key.

"Where's the place,"

"611 Church street...gah," The man's head detached easily from his body
under the pressure of Gerald's claws. Even as the hand was transforming
back, and the body of one Don Pratchell slumped to the ground, Gerald
easily caught the falling key.

"I don't need the money, corpse. just the place," A quick rifle through the
dead man's pockets revealed his car keys, and a signet ring of some kind,
which Gerald took. Time to find out who this Lodin fellow was.

 When Gerald finally arrived at 611 Church Street, he found it wasn't
"nice" or very "secure." It was located in only the very marginally
not-quite worst neighborhoods. This, of course, didn't bother him a bit. He
took the occasion to do the police a favor and mutilate some gang that was
putting on airs about "their turf," He was going to hunt down their women
too, but he had more pressing manners to deal with.

The inside of 611 Church Street was sparse, but clean and well-kept up.
Just as he closed the door and locked it behind him, the phone rang.
Cautiously, he picked it up.

"Yeah?"

"That you, Don?"

"Sorry, my friend, but Don lost his head a little while ago,"

"Who are you?"

"A guy. A mean guy. Who are you..." but there was a click, and the line
went dead. Gerald laughed, reclined back into a couch, and waited for
whoever was coming for him. He didn't have long to wait. In a short while,
the door was busted in, and two men armed with uzis scuttled in, taken
somewhat aback by Gerald's just sitting there in the chair.

"Gentlemen, I could kill all of you in a matter of seconds, and wouldn't
mind. I suggest you take me to see Lodin now,"

The two men blinked at each other. Finally, one waved his weapon toward the
door. Gerald got up, and allowed himself to be ushered into the waiting
car. A drive of fifteen minutes found them stopped outside the Hotel Royal.
Gerald stepped out, and was escorted by one of the gunmen, who had
discreetly hidden his weapon under his jacket, inside. Gerald, who had
never been inside a hotel this nice, was not impressed. Even when he
reached the "throne room" of Lodin, he was not impressed. He snorted at the
five obvious bodyguards sitting in rapt attention around the room, trying
to look casual and failing miserably. As he walked in, Lodin was just
finishing up a conversation with an underling.

"And make sure you blame it on the Anarchs this time. Last time, I had that
damned Brujah elder screaming down my neck because you framed the wrong
faction. Now go, I have other business. Ah, Gerald, how nice to see you.
Please sit down. I hear you had a...misunderstanding with one of my men
that ended unhappily,"

"Not really. I quite enjoyed it," Lodin seemed unmoved by Gerald's grin.

"Since you are of some interest to me, I looked into some of your affairs.
I hope you don't mind. Some cherry? No? Well, none for me, either, I think.
I see you have some holdings in various speculative businesses in the area?
You even own a few of them? Well, good. I have a business proposition to
make you. On of your business sells...how to put it... merchandise of a
more violent sort. Now I will be needing a large supply of arms in the near
future, so I might just do some en mass buying from you. Is that OK? Well,
then. That part I'll throw in for free, of my own good graces. Now, I can
also offer you a highly speculative, but possibly quite profitable,
investment opportunity. Now I'll do this..."

"If I kill someone for you. Don't look so surprised. The late Mr. Pratchell
hinted at something like this. I take it your own people could not handle
this person?"

"Well, they could, but it would throw a bad light on me if any of them were
implicated..."

"So you want me to do your dirty work for you. OK. Deal sounds good. One
thing, though: after I off this gentleman, or woman," Gerald smiled, "I
want a safe place, where I can be undisturbed, for about two months."

"Sure, no problem. Now, to get you a better place to live than that scrap
heap my men found you in.."

"No, I like it. I'll stay. Fits my mood, you might say. Where can you be
reached, just in case,"

"Oh, try me here, during the night. If I'm not here...or it's daytime...one
of my men can take the message for me. I'll contact you tomorrow night
about the target. Now, if you'll be so kind, I do have other business to
attend to,"

He waved Gerald out of the room. A man escorted Gerald out of the building,
and tried to usher him into a waiting car. But Gerald preferred to walk
back to his new house. After all, the night was young, he needed a fresh
breath of air, and it never hurt to know your neighbors.