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| The Marseille Connection | Started by: Babs on May 24, '25 22:34 |
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It was a tense evening in Detroit. Trapani Cafe had closed early; curtains drawn, doors locked. Inside—cigarette smoke, the scent of cognac, and a silence thick enough to choke on. At the main table sat @Joe Ligambi, stern as judgment day, Jimmy, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, @Fredo Trapani, the host and quiet observer, and Babs, calm as a still lake, leaning back in his chair, reading the room like he’d already seen the ending. At 8:00 sharp, the Frenchmen walked in without knocking. Pierre Marchand, their leader—composed, but too cautious to be confident. Luc Moreau, their enforcer, entered first, scanning the café with the cold eyes of a predator. Étienne Dubois, the production man, clutched a folder under his arm and looked like he already regretted bringing it. They sat down. The silence lingered. Pierre spoke first, his tone carefully measured. “Gentlemen, we bring a concrete proposal—one that could benefit both sides.” Joe replied flatly, “In Detroit, concrete proposals usually pass through our hands before they reach the table.” Luc added sharply, “We’re not here for permission. We’re here for partners.” Jimmy, cold and unblinking: “Then maybe you’re gambling with the wrong crew.” Babs glanced around the table, then leaned in slightly. “Talk straight. We don’t have time for perfume and theater.” Étienne pulled out documents—logistics, heroin purity, shipping routes via the Caribbean, expected profits. Pierre laid it down: “We’re asking for storage, route access, and protection in three districts. You get 25% of the profit. Our network, your territory.” Babs shook his head. “Twenty-five doesn’t even cover the risk if one of your ships sneezes off course.” Joe added: “If the Feds even whisper our names, your paperwork becomes ash.” Jimmy stepped forward, palms on the table, staring Luc down. “You want to deal, but you haven’t learned our rules. Around here, blood comes before money.” Luc replied, “So this is extortion?” Babs: “This is reality. Thirty percent. Our men run the storage. You don’t touch distribution until we’ve vetted every link.” Pierre hesitated, bitter, but nodded. “Thirty it is. A test shipment—seven days. If it works, we continue.” The French stood. Luc was the last to exit, giving Jimmy one last hard look. The door closed behind them. Silence returned. Joe lit a cigarette. Fredo poured cognac. Jimmy broke the quiet: “They’re not used to being the smaller fish. That’s a good sign.” Fredo added: “They bent tonight… but are they bowing, or just crouching before they bite?” Joe: “Doesn’t matter. We don’t take our eyes off them. These aren’t street punks—they’ve got soldiers. And brains. That’s dangerous.” Babs nodded: “The first shipment—we watch everything. Every man, every step. One whiff of betrayal, and we shut it all down.” Jimmy: “If this works, we get a clean route to Europe. Lab-grade dope. Profit the Italians can’t touch.” Fredo: “And if it doesn’t… war. Not just here—everywhere.” Joe exhaled smoke through his nose. “A war that’ll cost us everything. Press. Feds. Rats inside.” Babs leaned forward, voice steady. “Then no mistakes. This isn’t business—it’s chess with loaded guns.” Joe drained his glass and placed it firmly on the table. “Alright… let’s play. But we keep our hand on the trigger.” |
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