DanielEscobar

The mirror rattled in its metal frame fastened to the crumbling concrete wall. Angela's face blurred; distorting the dark stripe of eyeliner she was attempting to thicken from over the bathroom sink. A resounding boom, boom, boom from the club's speakers nearly shook the liner pencil right out of her hand. Angela could hardly hear herself think – much less touch up her half-baked attempt to blend in with the dark-eyed, scantily-clad women parading around the club. Perhaps a more subtle approach would've been safer. Angela leaned back and blinked her heavy lashes back into place. Just under the bassline was the faint whimper of two young women tucked in the back of the bathroom. The youngest was huddled against the wall with blue-black streams cresting across her cheeks. The eldest girl loomed over the slender frame slumped in the corner, jabbing a finger in her face as curses slurred their way past her lips. Angela didn't dare turn to face them. She kept her eyes fixed on her own complexion, watching it tremble with every hit from the muffled subwoofer. The floor of the women's bathroom was sticky; littered with at least a weeks’ worth of grime and refuse. Old plastic cups primed with brightly colored liquids buzzed around the dirty tile floor like insects, bumping into crumpled shreds of toilet paper and spent tubes of lipstick. Angela was having an impossible time trying to strike a balance between looking the part, and not catching the heel of her stilettos and crumbling to her knees. The older girl spun around and glared at Angela as she turned to face the bathroom door. “You fuckin' need somethin', white girl? Go. Go!” The girl's finger was now aimed at Angela – her gaudy acrylic nail glinting under the harsh yellow light. Angela did what she could to keep her composure. She quickly trotted towards the bathroom door and swung it open, stepping into the hallway. The cacophony was now accompanied by the heat of a hundred bodies packed into a concrete box. Down a narrow and equally cluttered hall stood a gaping doorway; dark, yet full of motion. Angela could only make out the figures crowded on the dance floor through quick, bright flashes from the strobe lights above. She grew closer to the churning shadows, and with every step her eardrums pinched at the sides of her head. A rush of hot air gave life to her silk top as she stepped through the empty door frame and back into the club. Sweat and spilled liquor clung to her breath, and gloomy red spotlights hardly cast enough light to find a path through the dark shapes crowding every corner of the room. At least out here, in the heart of the chaos, no one seemed to pay her any mind. Angela hung a left after stepping out of the hallway. She did what she could to memorize the layout of the old warehouse turned nightclub. Two lefts to the bar... One left, then one right to the door. A whisper of confidence filled her chest when she melted into the crowd. In this day and age, in this place – she was hardly even a fly on the wall. Angela felt safer surrounded by strangers than she did in the bathroom with one furiously drunk Chicana nipping at her heels. Angela knew all her fear and hesitation was constructed behind the baggage she brought with her. The cackling women clinging to their boyfriend's arms and spilling their drinks had no idea what this place used to be. The men with sweat beading under their overpriced dress shirts wouldn't be able to stomach the hours of paperwork she sifted through back in her earlier years at the Times. Angela felt as if she was reliving a memory she never knew she had; pieced together from crime scene photos and paperwork from the coroner's office. Angela's nightmarish renditions had become a reality; repopulated with brutish men and belligerent women. The Emerald Club was very much alive. The undulating crowd on the dance floor was lost in the relentless tones and rhythms of electronica, entranced by the lights as they flashed in tandem with the beat. The DJ perched above the dance floor gave them no respite. Poised behind the dance floor was the only viable option for escape: a crowded lounge area with worn, sprawling couches and a small aisle between them. As Angela pushed through the crowd, she began to take note of the faces framed under the hellish red glow. Both couches on either side of the aisle were packed with huddled bodies encircling a pair of short cocktail tables. To the blurry-eye patron, the two groups appeared no more suspicious than any other band of club-hoppers heading into East Los for a night on the town. Angela knew more than most, and her fear allowed her no ignorance. Years of scrolling through mugshots kept her painfully tuned to the symbols and words peeking out from under their shirt collars, or etched into the back of their hands. To the right was a large U-shaped couch tucked between two concrete pillars. A sea of freshly shaven heads and deeply sunken eyes tracked the crowd with unwarranted, paranoid suspicion. Tattoos in the shape of lightning bolts adorned many of their brows, and even in the club's stagnant, humid air the men still sported thick black bomber jackets. Angela noticed the sharp angles of a Swastika crossing the throat of a man seated near the middle of the group; his hands clutching two dented cans of Coors Banquet Lager. “The Whites,” Angela thought to herself, making a mental note of the heavily tattooed young man in the middle of the group. She blinked the sweat from her lashes as if to take a picture of the man's face from behind her eyes. Whether the Skins were enjoying themselves was a mystery – most of the men seemed preoccupied as their hands trembled in the quest for another cigarette; their eyes darting from person to person in a drug-induced frenzy. It was no business of Angela's either way. Not here for them. Angela pushed her way forward, shrouding her face from the men behind another group in passing. She glanced at the other side of the aisle – the adjacent booth bordering the dance floor. Perched atop another disheveled couch sat four young men, and three women. The young man in the center of the group laughed boastfully as he prodded the woman to his right. He rocked back and forth on the sofa, hooking his finger through the woman’s large hoop earring and tugging at her like a child pining for his mother’s attention. The young woman slapped his hand away, cursing at him in Spanish. A dull, metallic glint near the young man’s waist caught Angela’s eye. As the group squabbled and slapped at one another, it became clear to Angela this too was no ordinary group of drunk youngsters. The men’s arms were steeped symbols, numbers, and landmarks found within East Los. Heavy backpacks sat under their seats, and the unmistakable outline of a handgun could be seen protruding from the bottom edge of their white T-shirts. Angela stared for a moment too long. The man in the middle caught her gaze and sprung to his feet with a boyish grin. He reached out to grab her wrist as she took a step back. “Ay, wassup’ mija? Why don’ you come sit down, have a drink? C’mere… You can have her seat!” The woman to his right filled her fist with the end of his baggie shirt. “Shut the fuck up, Krim’! Stop actin’ like you all smooth n’ shit. That huera don’t want nothin’ to do with you anyways. Mirala; she ain’t getting shit from me!” Angela didn’t know whether the young man’s confidence or the girl’s colorful vocabulary knocked her more off balance. Kriminal tugged at her wrist, trying to coax her towards the couch. “Don’t trip, chica. She’s all talk, y’feel me? You look a lil’ outta place. We don’ bite on this side, sit. Sit!” A faint, nervous giggle is all she could muster. For a former reporter, she hated being the center of unwanted attention. She twisted her wrist free from Kriminal’s grasp, blending her escape with a gentle shrug of her shoulders. “M-maybe another time, yeah?” Angela took another healthy step backwards, her cheeks flushed with blood. Kriminal waved her off as Angela slunk back into the crowd. Pull yourself together: you’re a fucking disaster. Angela turned her eyes to the floor and fumbled towards the bar. The crowd grew thicker, swallowing her footsteps while she wriggled towards the bar at the back of the club. She reached out and grabbed the edge of the counter, pulling herself from the weight of the mob. The young woman behind the bar spun in place, splashing shot glasses full and tossing pairs of plastic straws into cocktail cups like harpoons. She shot Angela a quick, dismissive nod; revealing a cheek full of unfamiliar tattoos that climbed to her brow. “Hey girl, what ya’ need?” she asked shortly, sliding a few over-filled glasses down the bar. “Ah… Jus-just a shot, your Vodka. Something quick.” Angela replied. The woman reached back and grabbed a bottle off the shelf. She rocked it back and forth in front of Angela’s face. “This all we got left. Only clear on deck is Tequila – you good with that?” The woman tested Angela with a pair of raised eyebrows. She nodded, reaching into her purse and tossing a crumpled pair of bills onto the counter. The bartender glanced at the money and pinched another shot glass between her fingers. “Take two, girl. Looks like you need it, eh?” The woman cackled through a quick smirk as she pulled the bills across the bar. Angela reached out for the shot glasses, immediately bringing one to her lips. The woman behind the bar stiffened – freezing her fluid motion in an instant. Angela watched the woman’s halted posture from over the top of her shot glass. A heavy hand landed on Angela’s shoulder, gently pushing her to the side. She looked down at the meaty fingers now directing her every move. Lines of faded black ink were interrupted by calloused wrinkles crossing the back of the man’s hand. Angela choked down her burning mouthful of Tequila and turned to look at the figure behind her. “S’cuse me chiquita, Let me get in there real qui—” The man paused. leaning back on his heels. His face twisted into a skeptical frown as he studied Angela’s face. His hand remained on her shoulder, keeping her rooted to the floor. “You… know this chick, Oso?” The bartender asked the man, who was now completely lost in thought. “…Nah, nah,” He said, slowly shaking his head from side to side. His hand slipped from Angela’s shoulder shortly after. “Ain’t you that—? Nah. I’m trippin’, Jessie. Forget about it.” Angela’s eyes darted between Jessie, and Oso. She slid her second shot of Tequila off the counter and held it close to her collar. Oso’s eyes settled on Angela as he sauntered towards the cash register. He was suspiciously unconvinced. Big Oso... He was here. Angela’s legs went numb. She suddenly felt the twinge of every hasty decision leading her to The Emerald wash over every inch of her body. She was out of place. She didn’t look the part. She wasn’t fooling anyone. She was still the enemy. Jessie continued to work furiously as patrons slumped against the bar – but a sliver of her attention remained set on Angela as indecision pinned her in place. Angela came here for Oso – if for no other reason than to see if what she heard was true. Despite fear bringing every nerve in her body online – Angela knew she couldn’t let this opportunity fade into another drunken, regret-filled fervor. I want my fucking interview. Angela tossed back the remaining shot of Tequila and pressed up against the bar. She leaned over the edge of the bar top and raised her hand in Oso’s direction. He looked up from the register screen with an unmoving stare. “H-hey, excuse me! Oso! I was wondering if I could spea– ” Angela’s request was cut short by a blurry figure and a warm, damp palm slapping against her face. Slender fingers gripped her temples, sending veins of white light through her eyes. “Back the fuck up, homegirl!” Jessie spat as she shoved Angela back across the bar. She stood between Angela and her prize. Angela was shocked back into place, stumbling backward as she knocked the prying hand from her eyes. “He said he don’t know you like that! Raise the fuck up outta ‘ere!” Oso slowly counted the bills tucked against his palm – his eyes more wary than ever. Jessie stood between Angela, the bar, and Oso – her arms planted atop the counter as if he was waiting for the journalist to make a second advance. Angela tucked a lock of sweaty hair past her ear in search of her last ounce of self-respect. The bass began to pound with the rhythm of her pulse, ears aching with a familiar adrenaline-infused sensation. Jessie threw her hand from the bar and shouted something in Angela’s direction, waving her hand frantically towards the club’s entrance. People began to take notice, and the crowd distanced themselves from Angela while the bartender uttered her final warnings. Time to go. Now. Angela turned on her heels and hurtled herself back into the crowd. Whatever concerns she held about blending in evaporated behind her latest confrontation. She slid past the dance floor, stumbling past the shapes writhing under the pale flashes of light. The Emerald’s entryway bottlenecked at an old bay door retrofitted into a man-door. Angela squeezed past the security guards with a small sigh of relief and lunged towards the front entrance. The knob rattled beneath Angela’s shaking fingers, and a warm breeze greeted her as she swung the door open. The music faded into the sound of distant sirens and muffled voices. Angela ran a finger under her eyelids, wicking the sweat from her cheeks. The door slammed shut behind her, catching the attention of the two figures leaning on the railing between her and the parking lot. Almost there. A small blonde woman was nestled next to a hunched, gaunt figure; his arms hanging lazily over the other side of the railing. The woman muttered something in his ear while her eyes watched Angela’s pointed heels click across the concrete. She brushed her hand against the figure’s shoulder in an attempt to draw more of his attention. The warm air froze in her chest. The woman turned to face Angela, tilting her head to the side. She taunted the bewildered journalist. “Evenin’,” she muttered playfully, crossing her arms over her red cocktail dress. The woman’s pale, slender figure stood in stark contrast the with man’s oversized flannel and jet-black hair. The man needed no further introduction. He glanced over his shoulder at Angela, revealing a sharp jaw framed with weathered, yet ornate script. A deep scar ran down another tattoo etched across his cheekbone, concluding its journey somewhere behind a waxy, well-trained mustache. Angela’s arrival warranted nothing but annoyance. He didn’t bother to face her. An unexpected introduction. A cascade of mugshots and case file photographs spun like a camera reel behind Angela’s tired eyes. She knew the marking on the man’s face very well, yet his weathered, ghoulish complexion was absent from her memory. Angela feigned her final smile of the night as she shuffled behind the woman and the old man. The weight of their gaze slowed her escape, and she muddled her way through the parking lot towards an empty taxi. The tequila began to blur the last moments of her return to The Emerald Club. The Detective was right. East Los spat her out without a second thought. She had failed. As the vacant taxi coasted forward to meet her raised hand, the old man’s voice pricked at the hairs on the back of her neck. “Welcome back, Senorita—” Angela kept her eyes on the taxi’s back seats. “—after all these years… did you think we would forget?” Angela popped the passenger door open and spared a glance over her shoulder. The old man’s silhouette loomed over the railing. A vulture withered with hunger. “Good to see you alive and well… Padrino.” Angela retorted with a semblance of composure. She slid into the back seat of the taxi and slammed the door shut; her final farewell to The Emerald Club. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot more of you soon.”

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This thread is meant to be viewed in NIGHT MODE. This thread will showcase some of the character development, story lines and role play surrounding Daniel “El Viejo” Escobar, and Victor “Oso” Ramires – two local Veteranos raised in East Los Santos. This thread is does not intend to showcase any aspect of our role play or character story in its entirety; it serves a looking glass into the many different interactions, plot lines and characters we weave into our character's lives. The primary focus of this thread will be our role in the Los Santos community as it is portrayed in GTA World, although our character concepts and origins date back to SA-MP, in 2006. If you would like to learn more about our personal story continuity and how it aligns with GTA:W's setting, feel free to reach out. Until the creation of this thread, we have kept our involvement in this community relatively quiet, and almost completely in-character. We feel as though it's time to share some of our work, and excerpts of our role play with the wider community. We have thoroughly enjoyed interacting with all of you - sometimes on a daily basis – and we look forward to meeting and experiencing as many of your character's as we can. Our overarching goal is to breathe life into the handful of neighborhoods in East Los Santos by drawing people into its environment with immersive, realistic, and diverse role play. Our creativity in the realm of new ideas never tires, and we intend to break free of the monotonous molds that set themselves within criminal/neighborhood role play. But we can't do any of this without you - the wider community. We sincerely thank all of you for your involvement thus far, and we look forward to seeing you in-game. If you appear in any of these screen shots, and would prefer your name redacted (or the screenshot removed) - let us know immediately. El Lado Este es Todo. Prologue: The Scent Act I: “The Network” - An artistic and cumulative look at excerpts from our role play leading up to the creation of this thread, beginning in May 2022. Act II: “A Dying Breed” - A more detailed glance into the role play we currently conduct in and around East Los Santos.

Agreed. I couldn't be happier for the people who decided to set up shop in LC. It's fresh and exciting (as everyone equally recognizes on this thread), especially for those longer-term community members that have been rolling through LS for years now. They deserve a change of scenery. If that helps them break out of the molds that were formed in Los Santos RP and create something UNIQUE, ENGAGING, and IMMERSIVE, then more power to them. I'm a Los Santos player, through and through. If nothing else, the LS server's lower player count is a call to do away with the stereotypical themes that were so prevalent in Los Santos. This is a opportunity where people can work together and create something entirely original, with plenty of room - and time - to do so. I'm of the belief that no matter what motif the setting a new setting may provide, people will follow successful models of conducting themselves primarily based on what others in the community are doing (or have done in the past). Genuine originality is a challenge we should all strive to meet - whether it's with a faction, or simply developing a unique character. Detailed, unique, and coincidental storylines and interactions are the spice of this game. We don't need to fall back on any type of mode or play-style to create that, necessarily. Make your own mold. Think about what aspects of your RP may have been overlooked in the past, and start there. Whether you're in Blaine County, Los Santos - or Liberty City. There's infinite room to grow.

These are so fucking cool man. Amazing work. How do I go about employing you to make one of my character?

(The document below is not in original format. Please see attached .pdf) Angela shifted uncomfortably in the Detective's old armchair. She was growing impatient watching him mill about the stuffy old apartment, looking for reasons to dodge the inevitable line of questions brewing behind her lips. “So, what's this about -” The Detective asked behind the quiet hiss of a cap twisting off the neck of a beer bottle. “You didn't give me any details in your e-mail, and I haven't spoken to the press in a long, long time.” Angela looked up from the notepad resting on her knee. He was already drinking, and the morning sun still crept through the shuddered windows facing the beach. This was going to be one hell of an interview. “Oh, no – I'm not with the Times any more, Nilsson. Freelancing now. We had a... falling out, back in 2012. I'm here to walk down memory lane – since you said you had the time.” Detective Nilsson slumped onto the love seat sitting adjacent from the decaying chair harboring Angela's slender frame. Retirement didn't suit the aging Detective; his shirt crept up his gut as he leaned back into the cushions, and his sweatpants were caked with all manner of grime from days lazing about his filthy apartment. Angela, however, was never better. Her years away from the brow-beating and bureaucracy of the Los Santos Times allowed her some respite. A couple years in therapy - then laying low out of state - and boom. She was reborn. Unfortunately, Angela awoke to a world of hastily written click-bait articles and tacky one-liners meant for quick-scrolling Facebrowser users. But she had to start somewhere; and Detective James Nilsson was her golden goose. Even with cheap beer clinging to his mustache at nine AM, surely he could recall the highlights of his lengthy career in the LSPD. Angela raised her pen and shook it at James, trying to keep her tone light. “I'm here to talk about two perps you handled, back in the mid-90's, and again – briefly – in 2010. Daniel Escobar, and Victor Ramires. Any information you'd like to share regarding their associates; I'll take that too.” The Detective scoffed before taking a drink from his bottle of beer. It found it's way to the top of his belly before he spoke. “What about them. Those old fuckin' hombres from East Los? After the parole board fucked up and let them slide out in 2010, they should be back behind bars. Rotting in solitary somewhere out of state.” “They were,” Angela retorted, pushing her glasses up with the back of her pen. “But overcrowding is real bitch out of state. And the correctional system in this country is negligent... Sloppy, at best. Word on the street is they were released back in May of this year.” James shrugged in response. “Listen, Angela. I'm retired. Done. Whether they're walking around free or not has nothing to do with me. I did what I was told. We followed them for years in the 90's, and caught them running the same shit when they were on parole in 2010. They're older than dirt now. I don't think standing on a street corner fueling gang warfare is really in their hand of cards at this point.” The Detective's tone was already irritated. Perhaps Angela should've started with something less agitating. She quickly rolled back time with a deep breath and a forced smile. “We don't need to focus on the gang-banging. Let's talk about Daniel and Victor – as people. What do you feel drove them to straight back into their lifestyle after being granted parole in 2010? They were already getting along in years, especially for those considering themselves gang members.” James shrugged once more, this time appearing to relax as he did so. “These two hombres were different. Most gang members aren't driven by some near-esoteric belief that the neighborhood they live in belongs to their 'race'. Thugs kill each other for money, power, reputation. Now more than ever – it's about clout. It's block for block out there, Angela. There's no unity. No direction. Streets change hands every couple weeks. But when leadership added ideology... When you added direction; everything changed. That's what drove Daniel and Victor back into East Los Santos. A warped and near-religious dedication to keeping East Los Santos for 'their people'.” “I know,” Angela said sympathetically, trying to massage James into a stupor by softening her voice. “I remember speaking to the local flavor before the city was re-zoned in 2013. Things were a lot more organized than what I'm seeing now. Every neighborhood is broken into bits and pieces. Crime is almost impossible to follow as a journalist these days. That's why I'm starting with you.” The Detective turned and looked through a crack in the blinds, watching the blurry figures dance past his living room windows on the busy streets of Vespucci. Angela had to keep him in the past. She could tell the old Detective felt hopeless when compared to this new generation of criminals. She dragged Nilsson back with a statement disguised as a question. “I'm going to record the rest of our conversation, do you mind?” Detective Nilsson shook his head, setting his beer on an end table. Angela slid a small tape recorder from her coat pocket. It was a bit out-dated, but she trusted the traditional tools of the trade. “So – Daniel and Victor... You were the lead detective in the racketeering case brought against them by the DA, correct? And you also ran point on the investigations into the multiple homicides they were tied to?” Nilsson snorted. “Too many to count, yeah. I was. The racketeering was easy, because of their nightclub on East Beach. What was it – The Gem? Something like that?” “The Emerald.” Angela interjected. “Right. Seedy fucking place. Near the water in East Los Santos. Those two loved that club – as did their people. It was a complete pile, man. Condemned shortly after the Feds finished their murder investigations in 2011. It practically fell down around the agents' ears.” Angela protested. “But it did the trick, no? I dug through a ton of records on The Emerald Club during my stint at the Times. I pulled records dating back to '94. They were able to move hundreds of thousands of dollars through there before anyone took notice.” The Detective winced, irritated by Angela's passive, yet accusatory tone. “The nineties were a complete shit-storm, Miss Bourdeaux – and way before your time. One gang laundering money through a nightclub hardly made a ripple in a sea of murders and organized crime. You had to be there, believe me. Every detective had a stack of open murder cases that touched the fucking ceiling. We owed it to the families in Los Santos to handle those first.” The pair hung solemnly on the thought of those lost in the unending violence that plagued their city. Angela took a shallow breath, deciding what nerve the carefully poke next. James watched her with his fingers tightening on the arms of the sofa. He snatched his bottle of beer by its neck and took a slow drink. Angela scribbled notes onto the pad of paper resting on her thigh. She needed to remember which of her points aggravated the Detective the most. Time to put a pin in that. James broke the silence, sounding as though a dash of booze gave him a pinch of confidence. “Listen: it was pretty simple once we began our investigation into The Emerald. Almost like watching children try and play professional sports. These gang members, they weren't like the Italians, or the Russians in West Los Santos. Sure, they wanted to play by the same rules – but they lacked organization. You can't hide half a million dollars behind Tequila shots and bottle service in a club that barely cracked one-hundred occupants... And that was on a busy night. Messy laundering costed them in '95, and in 2010. Like you mentioned before; after their release, they went right back to the same bag of tricks. It wasn't difficult tracking their moves. Not one bit.” Angela anxiously bit the inside of her cheek. The Detective was dumbing down his side of the story, that much she could tell. If it was as simple as he was making it seem, Daniel, Victor, and their band of criminals wouldn't have been released fifteen years after the first indictment. She finished her page of notes before dropping the pad on the ground. She was relying solely on her small tape recorder now. With one quick motion, she leaned forward and stood it on the coffee table separating her from the Detective. “Sounds pretty straight forward,” Angela lied hastily as she prepared for another conversational pivot. “I've got two more questions for you, Detective. Then I'll be out of your hair.” James sighed and spread his legs, glancing down at the remainder of his beer. “Shoot.” Angela raised her chin, aiming to push the Detective's buttons further. “Tell me about the murders. Despite all the bloodshed in South and East Los Santos – the LSPD was only able to connect a two murders to Daniel, or Victor. How was the Police Department and the DA unable to pin more on these two men? What about charging them with conspiracy, or adding gang enhancements to their wrap sheet? I fail to see how these things were overlooked if their cases were as straight forward as you make them out to be.” James chuckled and shook his head, concealing a quiet snarl. He caught himself before his temper pushed him any further. “Daniel and Victor – especially Daniel – was very well insulated. That part they did get right. All of them were gang members, but of a different caliber. Remember what I said about ideology? It set them apart from your run-of-the-mill street gang. Daniel's ideology kept his soldiers loyal. Very, very fucking loyal. Many if not all of them fell on their swords long before we put him in cuffs. Upon his release in 2010, he cultivated the same fervor with a younger batch of men eager to prove themselves. They died all the same.” “It sounds like you're pretty confident on this whole 'ideological drive' angle, Detective.” Angela replied. James threw his hands up in the air as if to surrender his point. The retiree had enough. “What else was there to set these gang-bangers apart, if not for some drive other than money and reputation? You may not believe it sitting behind a fucking desk downtown clacking away on a keyboard all day. Go – go sit in an interrogation room with a couple of these motherfuckers, Angela. Go read the fucking tattoo's on their faces! We had twenty year old kids hanging themselves with bed sheets in their cells before saying one fucking word about “ Los Jefes”. The dedication was fucking militant!” There it was. The tender nerve. Angela licked her lips with excitement. James sprung from his seat, grunting as he nudged past the coffee table. He flung open the living room window and rummaged through the clutter on the table, looking for his pack of cigarettes. With a sigh of relief he peeled the lid of the carton and jammed one under his mustache. One of Nilsson's rage-fueled explanations rang in Angela's ears. Go sit in an interrogation room with these motherfuckers, Angela... Here was an idea she could get behind. Not an interrogation at a precinct or penitentiary... But something better. More visceral. More personal. More Free. James took heaving drags from the end of his cigarette and blew them out of the open window. Angela waited patiently for the disheveled man to cool, her mind clinging to the Detective's challenge. “You're right,” Angela murmured softly. “I don't know. I wasn't there from the beginning like you were. But I know when there's more to a story than what I'm being told, Detective. If you can't – or won't – tell me, then I'm going to find them myself.” James turned, staring blankly at Angela before jeering behind a thin cloud of smoke. “Miss Bourdeaux, if these two men are on the outside again, I wouldn't go digging through the ghetto to find them. You'll be eaten alive before you make it through Davis.” “Then help me.” Angela stated, matter-of-factly. James flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette into a dirty cup on the table. He shook his head vigorously before bringing the cigarette back to his lips. “No. Fuck that. You can dig through the gutter of this city all you want. My pension keeps me right where I want to be.” Angela rose from her seat and took a few steps towards Nilsson. His eyes tracked her as if he was a frightened animal. “At least tell me where to look. Or who to talk to. Something!” Angela was next to James now, leaning against the wall with her arms folded across her chest. She wasn't leaving until she knew where to look. James puffed on the end of his cigarette, breathing the smoke deep into his lungs. “All I can tell you is this: Don't go looking for Daniel. No matter how old, he's a fucking sociopath. He'll only entertain your presence so long as it serves his ego. I noticed that during processing, before he was shipped out of state. Daniel will try and seduce anyone he's talking to with grand ideas painted on a small, dirty canvas. It's not worth it.” Angela nodded quickly, paying heed to Nilsson's advice. Honesty was riding in his voice. “What about Victor? No one else has been released. Like you said; they were militant. And the rest of their men are dead.” James paused, grinding his cigarette butt into a plate. “Victor was more of a realist, sure. More diplomatic. Spent more time on the cutting room floor with the younger homeboys, I think. If you can find anyone to talk to, I would put money on Ramires. You'll have a better chance with him.” It wasn't much, but it was something. Angela smiled, trying to lighten the tension that smothered the room. “That's if you can find them, Angela. The press doesn't beat the streets like they used to. It's too dangerous. This new generation of criminals is all gasoline, and I'm sure you'll have to burn through them first.” Angela's heart raced with anticipation. She didn't need much direction, just a little push... And she found it. “Thank you Detective Nilsson.” Angela said, extending an open hand in James' direction. “Let me know if you remember anything else.” “Not likely.” James rebutted before giving her a limp-wristed hand shake. “Don't get yourself shot, Angela. You've done fine work in the past. We live in a very, very different city now. Where are you going to start?” Angela smiled as she stepped back, pulling the apartment door open. She replied in an almost poetic fashion. “Across the tracks. 'El Lado Este', as they used to call it.” James fell silent. A roll of his eyes is all he could muster. “Good luck, Miss Bourdeaux.” Angela bid the Detective farewell with a quick nod. She turned and stepped out onto the sidewalk, her body buzzing with excitement. She muttered to herself as the sticky morning air filled her lungs. “Welcome back to the Eastside...” Prologue - The Scent.pdf