Dazai counted the cash a second time, though he already knew the amount. Just over two thousand dollars. Enough to keep the room at the Royal Inn for a while; not enough to stop thinking about the week after that.
He tucked the bills back into his coat.
Finding honest work would require an explanation for his lack of identification. Finding work that paid enough to be useful would require a better explanation. In Queens, he had seen help-wanted signs in shop windows and spent the afternoon wondering how long an interview would last once an employer asked for his documents.
"An honest day's work," he said to the empty bench. "What a demanding tradition."
He needed money and information. People who worked outside the law often had both.
That morning, while running through Hell's Kitchen, he had heard a pair of men mention Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls. The name had amused him. Their lowered voices when they said it had held his attention.
Dazai rose and walked toward the subway.
By the time he returned to Manhattan, the afternoon had thinned into evening. He did not know where Sister Margaret's was, so he spent an hour asking questions without appearing to ask them. A man at a pool hall claimed never to have heard of the place; a few minutes later, he warned a friend to keep his mouth shut around strangers. A delivery driver Dazai met near a bar knew the street but not the building.
Dazai followed the driver's directions. When he found the sign, he stopped across the road and studied the entrance.
The sign promised a school. The men going inside wore no uniforms, carried no books, and checked the street before opening the door. Good enough.
Inside, Sister Margaret's smelled of beer and old wood. Music played behind several conversations, one of which stopped when Dazai stepped in. He let Presence Erasure settle over him as he crossed the room, then released it near the bar. If no one noticed him arrive, asking for work would become unnecessarily complicated.
A man two stools down looked at Dazai's bandages and snorted. The bartender looked too, though with more interest. He was bearded, tired-eyed, and polishing a glass with a cloth that had seen better days.
"What'll it be?" he asked.
"A glass of your finest whiskey," Dazai sat. "I'm Osamu Dazai."
"Weasel." The bartender set down the glass. "Now that we're acquainted, what'll it be?"
Dazai smiled. "I was told you might know where a person can find paid work."
Weasel's expression changed very little. His hands stopped moving.
"There's a job board in the window of the diner up the street."
"Will they pay in cash?"
"That depends. Do you know how to wash dishes?"
"I could learn."
The man on the next stool leaned over. He was broad, tattooed, and clearly enjoying the conversation. "Then go learn, mummy. This place isn't hiring kids."
Dazai turned toward him. "I wasn't asking you."
"Maybe you should."
The man rested a hand near his holster. Dazai noticed Weasel notice it too.
Dazai had spent years around people who used threats because they had nothing else to say. He held the man's gaze, letting the silence go on a little longer than was comfortable. Behind the bar, Weasel put down his polishing cloth.
"You planning to draw that?" Dazai asked.
The mercenary's grin faded. "Depends what you say next."
"Then I'll say nothing."
Dazai faced the bar again. A chair scraped behind him, but Weasel spoke before the man stood.
"Enough, Rourke. He hasn't done anything."
"He walked in here looking for contracts."
"People do."
The chair settled. Dazai resisted the temptation to glance back.
Weasel leaned across the counter. "You got a name. You got references?"
"A name, yes."
"Experience?"
"Yes."
"You're not making this easy."
"I'm trying not to lie to you."
Weasel studied him. Dazai let him. The bandages would make him memorable whether he wanted them to or not, and he had already made a poor start with Rourke. He needed Weasel to decide that giving him a chance was less trouble than throwing him out.
At last, Weasel pulled a folder from beneath the counter and laid it between them. "Looking is free. Taking one means you're responsible for it."
Dazai opened the folder.
Some listings offered small sums for finding people who did not wish to be found. Others asked for stolen property to be returned, or for property that had never belonged to the buyer in the first place. He turned a page and found work tied to the Maggia, Oscorp, and several groups operating around Hell's Kitchen.
He read the names carefully.
Frankie "Three-Toes" Cavelli. Fifteen thousand dollars for his death.
An Oscorp research drive. Fifty thousand for delivery to an anonymous buyer.
An Owl gang weapons depot. Twenty-five thousand if it was destroyed.
A detailed account of Daredevil's patrols. Forty thousand, paid through intermediaries.
Dazai paused at the last sheet. He remembered the red-suited man offering him help in the alley. Forty thousand dollars would buy a great deal of breathing room. It would also buy someone else the chance to prepare for Daredevil's arrival.
He turned the page without taking it.
Weasel watched him. "Something catch your eye?"
"Several things. Who verifies the work?"
"I do, or the client does. Depends on the job."
"And if the client decides not to pay?"
"Then come talk to me before you do something stupid."
Dazai looked up. "You're offering to mediate?"
"I'm offering to tell you how this place works." Weasel tapped the folder. "A lot of the people who bring jobs here have more money than sense. A few have neither. You don't take two listings because the numbers look nice, and you don't pick a fight in my bar to prove you belong."
"I haven't picked a fight."
"You were considering it."
"Only briefly."
Weasel folded his arms. "How old are you?"
"Old enough to disappoint you."
"That's what I thought."
Dazai returned his attention to the folder. There were jobs worth more than the contents of his pockets, but most would require equipment, contacts, or a willingness to kill for a stranger. He had done worse for reasons he believed in.
He slid the folder back.
"You came all this way to read?" Weasel asked.
"I came to find out whether this was worth coming back to."
"And?"
"I haven't decided."
Weasel gave a short laugh. "First honest thing you've said since walking in."
"I told you my name."
"Fair point." Weasel offered his hand across the counter.
Dazai took it with his bandaged hand.
The grip was brief. Weasel drew back, looking at the wraps around Dazai's fingers.
"If you come back," he said, "leave Rourke alone."
"I'd planned to."
"That makes one of you."
Dazai left Sister Margaret's without a contract. Outside, a cool wind pushed a paper cup along the curb. He had taken only a few steps when a chime sounded in his head.
He stopped beneath the sign.
[ SIDE QUESTS AVAILABLE ]
Cleaning the Streets, Part 1: Kill Maggia lieutenant Frankie "Three-Toes" Cavelli.
Reward: 10 Attribute Points; 1 Random Item/Weapon Gacha Ticket.
Ashes to Ashes, Part 2: Destroy the Owl gang's local weapons depot in Hell's Kitchen.
Reward: 10 Attribute Points; 1 Random Skill Gacha Ticket; 100 EXP.
Dazai read both notices. He hadn't accepted either job. The system had watched him look at the listings and decided what it wanted him to do.
He opened his status panel and selected EXP.
[ EXP may be earned through lethal combat and designated quest rewards. Each level grants 5 Attribute Points. ]
A second line appeared.
[ No quest acceptance required. ]
"Of course," Dazai said.
Weasel's advice had been sound. Dazai had no address for Cavelli, no layout of the depot, and no idea who had posted either contract. The screen was offering him rewards for killing a man and destroying a building; it said nothing about who might be inside when he acted.
He closed the panel.
There was money to be made at Sister Margaret's. There might even be work he could accept. But the system seemed determined to pay him best when someone else bled. Dazai had not needed its help to become good at that once.
Through the bar's window, he could see Weasel serving another customer. Dazai turned up his collar and walked toward the subway, taking the two names with him. He would learn who Frankie Cavelli and about Owl gang warehouse before deciding what to do next.