Conversation · Titus Hardie

"What are you talkin' about, madman? There's no eighth Hardie boy. There's seven of us and we're all here." He sizes you up.

"Or what -- you want to be the eighth Hardie boy? We ain't hiring!" He shakes his head.

"Actually, boss, we've been talking and we think she could maybe..."

This person Glen wants to hire -- he really respects her.

Hmmm... She? So there is an eighth Hardie and it's a Hardie girl?

"Shut the fuck up, Glen!" he roars. "I do the talking here! Now what the fuck do you want, cop?"

It has to be good if he won't let you pursue it. Looks like the lieutenant thinks so too...

"So let me get this straight... there is an eighth Hardie boy, it's a she and you don't like us talking about her?"

"That's right, we're not talking about this. This is a private Hardie boys matter, nothing to do with your shit. And..." He points at the lieutenant.

"You're not cops here. Don't go digging around, if you don't want a bullet in the back of your head. I'm watching you."

"Good -- we're all watching each other." The lieutenant adjusts his spectacles. "Officer, your question?"

There's no point in pushing it further, he thinks. This is already a victory. We'll learn more about this eighth Hardie sooner or later.

It has to be good if he won't let you pursue it.

"Sorry, boss..." you hear the blond man almost whimper.

She? So there is an eighth Hardie and it's a Hardie girl? Who might it be, Elizabeth the gardener?

Starting from the right: Boot size 44. Blond man in his thirties. Overbearingly masculine.

Wants the world to know he's a macho-macho man: tobacco-chewing and knuckle cracking. Who else do we have here?

Sitting on his right: standard working boots, size 45 or 46. Eldest in the room, probably mid-fifties. Smoker, quiet.

Coughs a lot.

Across, at the other table: hobnailed working boots, size 43. Gang tattoos. Mesque or Saramirizian. In his late thirties/early forties.

He spent his youth in Villalobos, a housing project in the Jamrock Quarter. There were incarcerations. Hard to say what else -- the ink is fading.

And then -- standard working boot, steel reinforced toes, size 46. The big dick. Wide at the shoulders and lean at the hips. Rugby cap, fingerless gloves, and numerous scars, a little under forty.

The emblem on his vest says 'Rowing club'. A little patch below it reads: 'T. Hardie, Captain'.

In the far corner: standard working boot, steel reinforced toes, size 44. Forty-something, non-alcoholic beverage in hand. (You squint.) Is that a plectrum?

And the little guy?

Size 41, with the light step. Not a child after all -- an older man with a rat-face; mean watery eyes and two front teeth missing.

In the middle, heaving and wheezing: big guy, boot size 46, deep marks. Probably carried the victim over. He alone is 130 kilos; add the man in armour and you could easily exceed 220.

Awful smell. His feet stink from all the way over there, despite having boots on.

In conclusion: these seven are the actors on the crime scene. The footprints were theirs, but there's a discrepancy.

Ruby's missing, obviously.

Yes. Ruby the lady driver drug runner. There's no denying it now. Time to ask the boys some questions...

Exactly. But none of this is news to you. You've stood there for about four seconds, not saying anything -- time to move on...

One of them is absent. The Odd Sole?

Exactly, the missing lady driver who was running the drug trade. Does it mean that the Hardie boys are involved in the drug trade as well?

These bandits? Definitely.

Maybe. But hey, you've stood there for about four seconds, not saying anything. Now is a good time to hit them with questions -- where's the eighth Hardie?

"The fuck is with you, fella?" Titus is staring at you with his head tilted.

Not necessarily. The lady driver could have kept the drug trade secret.

This would fit what Joyce told us, but I don't want to make any assumptions.

The entire Union might be involved. Maybe even all of Martinaise... (Look around suspiciously.)

One of them is missing. The Odd Sole?

Exactly. You've stood there for about four seconds, not saying anything. Hit them with questions -- where's the eighth Hardie?

Where?

On his neck. Forget it. It's not important.

Let's call this one The Musician.

A symmetric burn on his neck, resembling the letters Los Los. Has he tried to burn it off, leave that life behind?

"No-no-no," Titus points at himself, "Eyes here! You got business with my boys, you got business with me."

He understood what you were trying to do. Taking inventory of them.

Now watch the other guys fuck it up by falling out of line.

"Yeah, you fuck with the Hardie boys, you fuck with Titus Hardie!" shouts the scrawny rat-faced man, two teeth missing in the front.

Yes, falling out of line to please him! This is the best kind. And now this guy is going to...

"Relax, Dennis, no one is fucking you yet," says the forty-something man from the corner, with a plectrum hanging from his neck.

... use it to take a dig at his friend. Flood gates open.

"Yeah, Dennis, calm down," a blond man in his thirties agrees. "No one's fucking you, you stupid fuck."

"Let Dennis enjoy his fucking, man. We don't mind." You notice gang tattoos; the man must be either Mesque or Saramirizian.

This one knows how to keep things going. He's a hothead, but not one to be taken lightly. The last one is a bit of a black sheep...

"Yeah." The fat guy in the middle lets out a little chuckle. "You're not even being fucked, Dennis."

"Easy, fellas, we got company," Titus puts an end to it. "Let's see what brings the cop around."

Too late to stop you. You've already got them all -- including the old bearded man who's smart enough to smoke instead of talking.

The old bearded man?