Brooklyn, New York
Half-Past Six in the Afternoon

The corner between the Willoughby and Raymond Streets, in the Fort Greene neighborhood of Brooklyn, was not the usual stop for luxurious race cars or upstanding members of the gangster society. As a matter of fact, it wasn't the sort of place that anyone, regardless of their criminal proficiency, would be particularly interested in visiting. For it was here after all, that the infamous Raymond Street Jail opened it's gates to the worst kinds of criminals, confining them to dark, stinking, dungeon-like cells with nothing more than a flickering candlelight for a company.

In this exact place however, on this very particular afternoon, in which the last light of a warm spring day shone faintly against the black metallic paint of a Model J Duesenberg parked right outside the fortress-like building, things would prove to end even more so out of the ordinary than they had started out to appear. Sitting on the hood of the car, Jones and DarGabrielson, were having what it seemed to be a brief but thoughtful conversation. Dressed up in a casual yet elegant fashion, with ivy caps to cover their heads they appeared, to the less perceptive eyes, to be like two of the most common Englishmen, who were probably just taking a deserved break.

Jones had been conducting smalls business in the New York area for the last couple of weeks with Dar by his side, showing him first-hand how organized crime works, while taking the care of prompting him to notice the important details and asking which he had noticed on his own. Dar was a natural, making questions that Jones had taken far longer to ask on his own when he was starting out, and also others that left him thinking about the importance he was himself giving to some things, which he probably should be considering more often. Jones was using this chance as well to get a clear notion of what sort of vision he had of the Mafiosi life, and which he wanted to pass on.

This afternoon Jones told Dar to dress in a casual manner, and throwing an ivy cap to match his own on top of Dar's head, they drove out to this corner of the town as Jones said "I love the hot-dogs in that coffee shop by the Fort Greene's park.", they grabbed one each and hopped onto the hood of the car to attest for veracity in his statement, which eventually lead to another introduction for a not so distant lesson.

"There are many things you will have to, and probably will only learn on your own. Past the point of how to make money, that is. You'll soon learn first hand why the connections you establish are far more important than the numbers you hold. This is a rule of thumb for most things in our society but it becomes dangerous to ignore if you are to become a mafioso. A good deal is one you can say to have broadened the influence of your family. You can make good money with bad deals, but those generally get you six feet under." Jones was speaking slowly but was carrying an expression he would usually make when his mind was running fast. He was still mindful of the need to pass a strong and coherent message to his new associate when teaching him the inner-workings of his new life-style, but he had made different plans for this afternoon that went beyond theory. After receiving news that required his urgent reaction, he made sure to get his plan for today running with all the interested parties before picking up Dar, and had the rendezvous point set to be where he now was. This would also be Dar's first chance to take a bite on the action that would sometimes invade in a rampage into the daily routines of those who take the other side of the law. He needed to start getting acquainted with them. "Influence by itself cannot be measured if not for the numbers it represents. It is a far more complicate truth to ascertain than the one that meets the untrained eye. But you will need to get familiar with it, you need to train the eye to meet your sharp mind. Opportunities will arrive, crossroads too, in which you'll be able to see influence as it manifests and enact some of your own in this world."

Jones made a solid ball out of the tin-foil in which the hot-dog came wrapped in, and while raising it in his hand above his head, he concluded "You have to be highly conscientious, it's what I'm saying." and sent the ball flying high into the nearby trashcan. "Whoop! Bullseye!"

As the tin-foil prop dropped in the rusty bin, Dar let the words of Jones sink in. Responding quickly had never been a difficulty for him, but the past few weeks had taught him that most obvious things aren’t always as simple below the surface. Even something as ordinary as eating a hot-dog proved to be an opportunity for a teaching. And Dar loved it. Before he had learned from circumstances or from dusty books, nicked from people who were distracted by looking at other people they’ll never have or would never become. But some things - like what body-language helps to convey the message that paying protection money is a good thing - can’t be learned from books.

“I think I understand, sir. I’ll admit that at first I was surprised when bringing in cash after an errand, there appeared to be a greater interest in how the job went, rather than how much I brought home. But I see now that our interactions have an effect that lasts for long after the profits have been spent. Each new day, has its own tomorrow which we already need to consider when acting today.”

Whether it was the skinny cat, crossing the street, or the truck as it rode past them - leaving dust and sand settling it’s path - Dar noticed that Jones’ eyes followed them, like he did with everything. He came to appreciate this man, who while being focussed in the moment always kept an eye on what happened around them; registering risks or identifying chances. This area was pretty much without opportunities, apart from coffee-shop at the park. For some reason hardly any people could be seen around this part of town and worrying enough, Dar was convinced he had seen some coppers get into the shop for some hot-dogs as well. Perhaps that should be no surprise, if there's any good food to be found anywhere, the pigs usually drop by for their share as well. Dar crumbled his foil-wrap in his hand and looked at the bin, considering a score as well, but he decided to put it in the pocket of his coat, preventing a possible embarrasment of missing.


“Sir, if I may, “ Dar continued. “When you talk about crossroads, do you think one is ever fully prepared for those or is every choice a gamble in it’s own? Because unless we go in circles, which would not bring us anywhere, each crossroad leads to an uncertain destination, right?”

Jones smiled again while listening to Dar, and looked at the Williamsburgh clock tower in the distance. The crown and the giant clocks were still being irradiated by the sunlight, but there was a cool breeze starting to run through the streets below, announcing a very different reality to come. This was the calm before the storm for him, and Jones had a habit of growing into a state of ataraxia in these moments. A sort of unbreakable impassivity towards convenience, which allowed him to do what he had deemed right by his own principle, despite of the vertigo of danger or the struggle to come. The clock on the tower marked five minutes left to the appointed time. "That is a good question."

He shook his head slowly and then looked back at the boy. "I think that you should plan for failure, if you're lucky enough to have the time to plan at all. And then you'll be as close to being fully prepared as you'll ever be." He chuckled and continued. "But things don't workout that way. You're never prepared, and the critical moments will hit you when you least expect them. So you don't plan for the small things exclusively, or you'll be bound to myopia. And become short-sighted, as far as direction goes."

"The way it works for me personally, is visualizing the best while expecting the worst. Knowing that every one of these moments is a chance you're being given to step up towards the place you want to reach. So they're only as uncertain as you see them being. If you apply your own principles as a thumb-rule for most of these "crossroads", you'll eventually get where you want to be."

"Sure there is always a game of chance in place, but you must be aware that you're the one making your own luck. Even if sometimes I don't know where I'm headed, I'm never uncertain as to which paths I won't take, and that's a direction on it's own." He made a brief pause to let the words sink in to his and Dar's head.

"The best solution to most problems is always the simplest one. And right now, there is a problem we need to deal with that might be a crossroad for yourself."

Jones got up and turned to face the road with both arms sitting on the hood of his car. A rusty Chevrolet truck had stopped behind the two and inside of it was a skinny old man with small round glasses resting on top of his big nose. His hair and mustache were of an eerily black tone, as there was not a single white string on his face to represent the erosion of time, which didn't match the seasoned look of his rugged skin.

"Bonjour! I am look for monsieur Anthony Castel." He said with his arm resting on the window jamb while closing his eyes and giving away a wide and friendly smile.

"Monsieur Martán. I am glad you could make it." Jones pointed to the back of the truck. "And with your precious cargo as well." There was a white sailcloth covering it's contents. But the old man raised a small box from the passenger's seat and presented it proudly to the two men looking at him. Written in black, inside a red circle it could be read: "Trojan. Explosives. Chemicals." Jones nodded and Martin placed the box back on the seat.

"Tony is behind that wall, third window to the left of the stairs." Jones said, and the french man turned to look for a few seconds and when he turned back his face was red and his head was shaking with indignation. "Those, those, those. Connard!" The truck hiccuped and then screamed onward, leaving a trail of black smoke behind.

Jones chuckled and turned back to Dar to evaluate his expression. "Earlier today, a great friend of mine was caught by the local authorities and brought to this place in front of us. This is a prison where people are given more than a rough treatment for their career choice." He opened the backdoor, raised the cushioned seats, and took out a set of Parker shotguns that he handed to Dar. He kept filling his pockets with shells while speaking quickly. "His friendship would be more than enough, but on top of that, he is a valuable character for both sides. And we can't let the enemy side have him." He took one of the shotguns from Dar's hand and looked at the boy.

"We can talk about important lessons and share ideas any day. But there are times we need to put into practice what we talk. "He pointed at the prison wall. "In a few minutes, that wall is going down, and I will go in to get TonyCastelli out, and get the hell out of here before anyone notices what happened. I've got to ask you though only as matter of courtesy and consideration. Are you in?"