welcome

[Remington Matthieu]

You've got to spend money to make money, the notorious man thought to himself as he personally counted out forty euros. It wasn't every day that he could find some corrupt bloke who was willing to rat out someone they knew by name. This was sure to be Remington's lucky day. Aside from providing another opportunity to flaunt the fact that he didn't understand the concept of saving money. After transaction had been completed, he roughly pat the man's shoulder dismissing him. The sell-out quickly left Des Baroches as an extra precaution. Which struck Remy as suspicious. Their 'client' had been located on the high roller's floor. Carlo Marino Paride. He was an Italian man who had taken a significant loan out from their boss, Edouard Fournier. This was an entire month ago, and he had failed to start paying them back on date. Finally, weeks late and Fournier decided to dispatch his boys. If the man from earlier had conned him, he would be wise to expect a visit. Remington had that man's name and address on tap. If he ever needed it, he would have it. It would be an event that would end nameless. Nobody deceives the deceiver.

Remington's hand slipped into his pocket before pulling out a white cell phone. Only a few clicks then he pressed it to his ear. To be expected, he got shot almost forthwith to Alexandre Soucy's message bank. "I got the lead we've been looking for. Meet me on the high roller's floor." Remington wasn't one to say his name while recording a voice message. To someone who knows him well enough. His co-worker and his boss knew him well enough. They had been working together for some time. Once the message had been spat forth, he snapped the cell phone shut and slid it back into his pocket taking a quick survey around once more. At the moment, he was on the outskirts of the game floor and the sounds of constant chatter that sounded less like conversation - more like the bittersweet murmurs of Hell. It was, needless to say, a pleasant sound. Too bad it was overshadowed by the clanging of each and every fruit machine.

As cheap sons of bitches whittled away at their handful of coins. He found it disgusting. Hypocritically disgusting. Since he is the type of person who would sit at one machine until he ran out of money. Even if he was on a losing streak courtesy of a bad machine. With that in mind, it was a challenge for Remington to leave this place. He shoved past the newest wave of tourists who were now dispersing into whichever direction they felt was flirting with their luck. He set his sights on the stairway leading to the second floor. Forcefully removing one person out of his way by pushing against them before glancing back behind him just to make sure their 'client' hadn't caught wind and started high tailing it out of there. After that was established, he turned to face the stairs. Gazing up, he wasn't sure what was causing him to hesitate so much. It was very uncharacteristic of him and he knew it. Remington was the type of man who could make a living selling heartbeat intimidations. Keeping that in mind, he started up the two flights leading to the room just overhead.

An index and a middle finger trailed along the wall as two slick black boots hit the clean marble of each step. His almost numbed sense of touch taking in the textures through the fingerless gloves he was wearing. As if he had just gotten off a motorcycle, which was far from the truth. Underneath the leather was bandages bound tightly to knuckles and the back of his hand. They had been scalded, an unfortunate mishap during an interrogation only half a week ago. Granted, he shouldn't have been playing around so much. Especially not when hot oil was involved. What was supposed to be a fun event turned into a bold mistake when it turned out that Remington did not tie him tight enough. One sudden movement and he ended up burning himself rather than that man. It was painful each and every time he moved it but he did his best to ignore. Nobody would guess that something was wrong. Aside from his boss or co-worker, maybe. As soon as he reached the top of the flight of stairs he entered the room.

This floor was reserved for those with expensive tastes. Those who spent more than a few hundred thousand. The fact that their target was even here was enough to rub Remington's fur in the wrong direction. If he had enough money to be here then he could pay back the thousands he owed. It was however, a nice transition from the floor he had been on just moments before. Everything was lavished nicely. From the keen attention to detail to how each table was set forth. In comparison to the game room, this one was not crowded to the core with tourists. Rather it had small groups of eloquently dressed men and women standing or seated at each of the card tables. Remington's eyes were kept peeled for Mister Paride. His widely infamous grin parted his lips as he spotted that familiar face in the distance. Not one to allow himself to feel restrained, the temptation to go after him burned through his system. Although, he had been strictly instructed to wait for Alexandre this time, he leaned back against the wall at the entrance.

Last time they had been told to do something of this nature, Remy did not wait and immediately took to his own methods. Of course, this did not sit perfectly with Soucy. Torture wasn't exactly part of the plan. Clad on his form was a dark, dark, dark gray suit jacket with a matching pair of pants. Hiding underneath that was a pitch black dress shirt. While it was an attractive look on the man's defined features - it wasn't as nice of an outfit as he would normally wear. But this particular venture did not look promising. On a typical day, he would go for a black and white suit with a thin black tie loosely around his neck. Sadly - his favourite was still hanging at his flat begging for the dried blood to be tentatively removed from it. Remy was a generally impatient man. No matter what situation he happened to be in. As such, he was not embracing the fact that he had to stand here alone and watch his quarry plunder each table in a vacant drift. He even locked eyes with Remington for one second before continuing his business.

Yeah, pretty vacant.

[Edouard Fournier]

When your life is defined by a single action, it changes the concept of time. Eddie was trying to think about that...what his single action was. Perhaps the day he asked Noemi to marry him. The day he had his daughters. The day he decided to do what his father did. That must have been it. Find the source of pain, and cut it away. Find what cancerous moment in your life is taking all your energy and all your vitality and cut it out. It was easier said than done. Edouard Fournier was a man who couldn't leave his life behind. He wanted to think that he could, but it was basically impossible. He had too many people counting on him. His life was a big tangle of people, money and emotions. It was enough to make him want to tear the world apart and then dissapear into the wilderness for the next fifty years.

Some days he woke up feeling impossibly numb. He literally could brush his teeth and not feel the bristles running across his gums or tongue. These were the days he felt the need to drink a little more than he should, or allow his guys to get a little extra violent with a client. He stared at the numbers in front of his face and couldn't even begin to do the math needed to figure out how much this asshole owed him. Fischer? Was that his name? On the books, he was just Client #347. And next to his little number was a much bigger number. The pain the ass was becoming more of a thorn in his side. Something needed to be done about it. His fingers itched to call Remy and Alex, but he wanted to hold off. Hesitation had become his trademark, something that had only come about recently. He just needed to think about everything more these days, to make sure he wasn't acting on emotion or instinct. However, once upon a time he had been as brash and unforgiving as Remy. Now he seemed to be more thoughtful, more forgiving. He was sure that if he didn't shake this, he'd die because of some hesitation.

His desk was a mess, and he needed to bring some order to it, which is what he was doing, just gathering up the paper work and filing it. He decided that he should have some sort of secretary, but found it doubly hard to find one that he actually could trust. He had a few files. Some held financial information, some held contracts and titles to houses that he had collected as collateral. This kid, this thorn in his side...he was a case for brutality if he ever saw it. Hardly ever did Alex or Remy have to rough anyone up...hardly never had he ever had to order someone to be exterminated. Excessive violence often scared off the business, so he tried to keep the mauling to a minimum. It was hard, when all he wanted to do was make an example of all the scum that were delinquent on their accounts with him. Hell, he was being nice and giving them money from his own pocket when no other banks or loan offices would touch them with a 20 meter pole. And then they would try to weasel their ways out of debt. He got fed some interesting lines, too. Excuses helped no one. Do what you need to do, but make sure you pay the shark.

Yes, it would seem that Eddie had everything he could ask for. He was single, he had a successful, if not illegal business. He was a multi-millionaire and he had two men working for him and low overhead. He also had an office on the tenth floor of Des Baroches. Life was good. He could even pop off for a bit in the afternoon and play a little blackjack downstairs. All was well here. So why was he so unhappy? Standing, he smoothed the fabric of his Armani suit, straightening the tie out of habit as he ran a hand through his hair. He grabbed his cell phone, leaving his office to do exactly what he wanted. He was going to play some black jack, maybe have a drink or two and chat up a pretty girl. And then he was going to decide what to do about this Fischer kid. Oh, and there was the matter at hand. Remy was currently out and about, supposedly on the hunt for another one of these low-lifes that no one will miss. It was all a sad, sad affair, having to take these people out. Most of the time, they were so dirt poor that the only reason to kill them would be to put them out of his misery. And then sell everything he owned on the market and hope to turn at least a little profit from his untimely demise.

It was time to check on Remy, who had been told to wait for the level-headed Alexandre, and Eduoard just wanted to make sure that his fiery-tempered and somewhat twisted associate did as he was told this time. Last time, there had been a bit of a...well, a mess. Alex had done a marvelous job cleaning up after it, but the whole ordeal made Eddie cringe. Anything that brought attention to him was bad. He would let Remy and Alex fall for a crime before he would ever sacrifice himself, but he wouldn't ever let them know that. It was show time. It was time to be the Edouard Fournier everyone expected him to be. He entered the High Rollers floor and instantly saw the mark. He was breathing his last breaths and trying his hardest to make the tables work for him, but it was all...futile. Like a goldfish gasping for breath out of water. Remy was not hard to find, though he was being covert, most people didn't see him unless he wanted to be seen. Edouard took in his associates clothing with a bit of a smile.

" I see you aren't wearing your favorite suit...must still have the blood on it from last time..." His voice was low, calm and smooth, another cultivated attribute that he had always used when he was talking to clients or associates. " Who is it today? Mister Paride, yes? I think it might be beneficial to him if we let him leave the day alive...but with significantly less money in the bank..." He half-expected Remy to complain about the lack of dead bodies, but again...Ed wasn't in the business of killing people. Dead people didn't have debt, now did they?

[Remington Matthieu]

Waiting. Remington couldn't hate anything more. As if on cue, the cell phone in his pocket started rumbling. After purposefully ignoring it until it went to his message bank he reached into his pocket and took it out. 1 New Voice message. With a grimace plastered on his face, he reluctantly held it to his ear. The familiar voice of his co-worker sounding into his eardrums. "I'm on my way, remember just watch him this time alright." He repeated the words to himself mentally out of habit. In the background there was enough engine to almost filter out the man's accented words. He rolled his eyes instantly. This meant that he was not even at Des Baroches yet. A tongue swept over his jagged teeth to silence himself from muttering obscenities into the air courtesy of the newest annoyance. It wasn't normal for them to pursue a client whilst on the high roller's floor. But at a time like this, you take the lead when you can get it. Beggars can't be choosers. Though, the line signifying whether the gang was on the choosing or begging side was hardly defined. At least - it wasn't in Remington's eyes.

Speaking of those blue chasms, they had now been locked in Mister Paride's universal direction. Only he was nowhere to be seen. Remington cursed under his breath for allowing himself to be pathetically distracted. As he absently returned the cell phone to it's proper location, he scanned looking for that Italian bastard. It didn't take too long to spot him in a small crowd, putting Remington in a state of ease. And by stroke of brilliance, he just happened to be facing him. The more he watched, the more his mind wandered. Carlo Paride was a rather attractive man, and it seemed that most of their clients were as such. One could only assume that they may have more reason to blow all of their money off really fast. But that was only if you were shallow. Unfortunately Remington was. He had always been that way. Aesthetics are a moral imperative. This was made painfully clear by simply looking at how Des Baroches was designed. There wasn't a single inch that was out of place. From the ceiling to every nook and cranny.

As he took each solid glance at their client's face, he yearned to destroy it in some way. Mentally, he had begun plotting what he would do. The steps he would take. Even what words he would say. As these thoughts spun a web of torture, his lips parted into that grin those who knew him loved to hate. Those who had never been a victim of any of his machinations were not exempted from this endearing irritation. Schemes and fantasies were no longer holding the beast at bay. Just as he was contemplating making a move, he heard his boss's voice. The sudden interruption would have caused any other man whose concentration was fixated to jump startled. But not the wanted man, he had a particularly fearless demeanor. Considering all he had done in his life thus far, one could only expect he knew his luck would run out eventually. Still - this didn't keep him from stretching whatever fortune fell his way. Whenever he was offered an inch, he would take a mile. Needless to say, he was pretty much a bastard. Both figuratively and literally.

"Can't take it to the cleaners." He replied, his tone bemused and refusing to break that unrelenting grin. Although, this was actually a fairly new idea that had been banked in his memory. He had actually been caught about to send a shirt with a noticable tear along the seam at the bottom bloodied up to the nearest laundromat. The act had gone noticed by one of those working there. Remy had been forced to go in for questioning. Luckily, the man could lie through his teeth. And it took a reasonable amount of convincing to get the woman to believe it was an accident of a vodka fueled evening. Most of which wasn't remembered the following morning. The thought of paying others to wash his clothes had barely crossed his mind before hand. Normally, he would do it himself back at his flat. Perhaps the lack of time in his busy schedule herded him into taking the easy way out. Who knew. Regardless, Fournier had provided another beat. "Well - we don't have to kill him, per say." Remington implied as if it were the most natural response on earth. With his sadistic grin clad on his features, he turned his head to look at his boss.

Upon seeing a somewat solemn expression in Fournier's eyes, he could only assume that it was out of the question. An inconceivable amount of disappointment crept into him before he rid himself of his smile in favour of a more serious look. "Aren't we at least going to rough him up, Eddo?" Remy's words were drenched in a shadowed English accent. One that he hadn't been able to shake off entirely, even after all these years. He also knew all too well that Eddo wasn't a nickname that Edouard was fond of. Then again - that was what drove him into using it. This happened to be a blatant protest. Anyone who seriously knew the suspected murderer was aware that he would not be pleased with a nonexistent body count. That much would have been seen from a mile away. A gloved hand ran through his brown hair, moving the unkempt bangs out of his vision. If only he could have Alexandre on his side when it came to bouts like this. At least then would have a more convincing argument over it. Sometimes, he couldn't help but feel caged. I'm going to need some killer drinks after this.