Post by Shakespeare on Jan 7, 2007 21:03:26 GMT -5
Name: Hugh Cassaverdes
Age: 25
Height: 6'1"
Hair color: Dark brown
Eye color: Dark brown
Social class: Upper class
Occupation: Helping his father do things for the family business.
Hometown: Westerleigh
Introduction:
"They'll shoot you just to see if the gun works."
A harsh, but rather correct analysis of the mentality of the infamous Cassaverdes family given by a senior gang analyst. The Cassaverdes... Think Don Corleone and his thugs, with bigger guns and faster cars. Half the police force is paid by them, and anyone who isn't is easily scared out of their wits after being cornered and gun point by three men about four times bigger than them. And anyone who's incredibly brave? Oh, how horrible it is for the poor man to have fallen off that bridge late at night. In short, whatever the Cassaverdes want, they get. Easily.
Currently, Jackson Cassaverdes' oldest son was slicking back his hair, and admiring his reflection in the mirror. Black suit, black shirt, black tie, excessive rings on nearly every finger. Thus was the gangster look his father had drilled into him since Hugh had been old enough to think for himself. He simply exuded the look of someone who was involved in shady (but of course classy) business. That, and the pistol that was obviously "hidden" in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. There was no need for him to camouflage it; nearly everyone carried a pistol in Westerleigh. So, straightening his jacket, he stepped out of the posh apartment he was living in, the heels of his shined shoes tapping against the marble of the entrance hall.
The secretary at the desk threw him a "Have a nice day, Mr. Cassaverdes!", and the doorman bowed slightly as he opened the door. Hugh simply nodded in response, striding out onto the street. Rail-thin girls in stillettos and short skirts passed him, hiding under oversized sunglasses and tweed newsboy caps like they were celebrities, clinging to the arm of some butch athletic trainer. Westerleigh was absolutely wonderful, no? Hugh stepped towards the curb, signalling for a cab with a flick of his wrist. One screeched to a stop, undoubtedly having recognized the glint of gold on his fingers. He opened the door and sat down. "H&M Boch." were the only words that escaped his lips, his voice faintly tinged with a British accent. The taxi driver, most likely an illegal immigrant from some third-world country, nodded and sped off.
So Hugh settled farther into the plush seat, thinking about his father's instructions. Mr. Boch owed his father money. Hugh was to get it from him, or take the cash away from the old man's cold, dead hands. His lip twitched. A wonderful plan, really. His favorite kind. Simple, easy to remember.
When the taxi stopped in front of the gold-plated building that read 'H&M Boch' in giant letters, Hugh handed a twenty dollar bill to the driver, and after muttering pontifically to the man to keep the change, he stepped out. A single finger to check for his gun, and the twenty-some year old strode into the building, dark eyes flitting from side to side.
Inside, a skinny fake blonde secretary wearing a dark suit sat at a desk in front of a statue of some kind, clacking away at her computer. He moved forward, then finally said "I have an appointment to meet Mr. Boch." The woman's head jerked up, and in her fake-sweet voice she probably used on everyone, she trilled, "Mr. Boch doesn't have any appointments today. He's a very busy man."
Hugh rolled his eyes sarcastically, and leaned forward onto the desk. "My name is Hugh Cassaverdes. I'm here on business for my father." Already, he could see her eyes going wide, her empty brain probably processing through tomes of information about hysterical news broadcasters talking about the latest murder linked to the Cassaverdes. He could practically see the gears in her mind working. Loyalty to her boss, or the chance of getting killed herself? The choice was rather simple. She gulped, then handed him a paper. On it was inscribed the words 'Hugh Cassaverdes to see Mr. Boch" in capital letters. "Fourth floor." she squeaked, and after smiling tightly at the woman, Hugh set out towards the elevator.
A short, rather painless ride later, his heels were once again clicking against marble, this time towards Mr. Boch's office, clearly indicated to be at the end of the hall. He handed the paper nonchalantly to the skinny fake-blonde secretary on this floor, who after starting slightly at the name on the card, pressed a button, muttered "A Hugh Cassaverdes to see you, sir.", and motioned for Hugh to walk in to the office.
The first thing Hugh noticed about Mr. Boch was the sheer size of the man. Three hundred pounds, at least. Six feet four, he'd say, with hands the size of hams. Not letting his slight fear show on his face, he settled himself in the red velvet chair across from the man. "Mr. Boch", he began, "my father has sent me to settle some business he has with you. You owe him a sum of" - he drew a piece of paper out of his jacket -"Twenty-four thousand, six hundred and fourteen dollars. He would greatly appreciate it if you wold pay him back as soon as possible." It was the same shpiel for every old geezer. Give them a chance to pay up, and if they don't, bye-bye birdy.
Next thing he heard was the furious scribbling of a pen against paper. By the time he'd looked up, Mr. Boch was pressing a check into his hand, muttering , "Here, son. Tell your father that I'm not borrowing money from him anymore." Hugh smiled, nodding. "I'll tell him, sir." And with that, he got up and walked out the door, feeling the pistol hit his hip as he walked. Things always went more smoothly when whoever paid up.
No messy murder investigations.
Which was always nice.
His shoes clicked out the door and back onto the street, where he hailed another taxi and settled in, pulling out a phone. "Father, he paid up. Everything went smoothly. I'll send you the money soon." Flicking it close, he settled in for a nice ride to the bank. Ah. Now what to do the rest of the day?
Age: 25
Height: 6'1"
Hair color: Dark brown
Eye color: Dark brown
Social class: Upper class
Occupation: Helping his father do things for the family business.
Hometown: Westerleigh
Introduction:
"They'll shoot you just to see if the gun works."
A harsh, but rather correct analysis of the mentality of the infamous Cassaverdes family given by a senior gang analyst. The Cassaverdes... Think Don Corleone and his thugs, with bigger guns and faster cars. Half the police force is paid by them, and anyone who isn't is easily scared out of their wits after being cornered and gun point by three men about four times bigger than them. And anyone who's incredibly brave? Oh, how horrible it is for the poor man to have fallen off that bridge late at night. In short, whatever the Cassaverdes want, they get. Easily.
Currently, Jackson Cassaverdes' oldest son was slicking back his hair, and admiring his reflection in the mirror. Black suit, black shirt, black tie, excessive rings on nearly every finger. Thus was the gangster look his father had drilled into him since Hugh had been old enough to think for himself. He simply exuded the look of someone who was involved in shady (but of course classy) business. That, and the pistol that was obviously "hidden" in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. There was no need for him to camouflage it; nearly everyone carried a pistol in Westerleigh. So, straightening his jacket, he stepped out of the posh apartment he was living in, the heels of his shined shoes tapping against the marble of the entrance hall.
The secretary at the desk threw him a "Have a nice day, Mr. Cassaverdes!", and the doorman bowed slightly as he opened the door. Hugh simply nodded in response, striding out onto the street. Rail-thin girls in stillettos and short skirts passed him, hiding under oversized sunglasses and tweed newsboy caps like they were celebrities, clinging to the arm of some butch athletic trainer. Westerleigh was absolutely wonderful, no? Hugh stepped towards the curb, signalling for a cab with a flick of his wrist. One screeched to a stop, undoubtedly having recognized the glint of gold on his fingers. He opened the door and sat down. "H&M Boch." were the only words that escaped his lips, his voice faintly tinged with a British accent. The taxi driver, most likely an illegal immigrant from some third-world country, nodded and sped off.
So Hugh settled farther into the plush seat, thinking about his father's instructions. Mr. Boch owed his father money. Hugh was to get it from him, or take the cash away from the old man's cold, dead hands. His lip twitched. A wonderful plan, really. His favorite kind. Simple, easy to remember.
When the taxi stopped in front of the gold-plated building that read 'H&M Boch' in giant letters, Hugh handed a twenty dollar bill to the driver, and after muttering pontifically to the man to keep the change, he stepped out. A single finger to check for his gun, and the twenty-some year old strode into the building, dark eyes flitting from side to side.
Inside, a skinny fake blonde secretary wearing a dark suit sat at a desk in front of a statue of some kind, clacking away at her computer. He moved forward, then finally said "I have an appointment to meet Mr. Boch." The woman's head jerked up, and in her fake-sweet voice she probably used on everyone, she trilled, "Mr. Boch doesn't have any appointments today. He's a very busy man."
Hugh rolled his eyes sarcastically, and leaned forward onto the desk. "My name is Hugh Cassaverdes. I'm here on business for my father." Already, he could see her eyes going wide, her empty brain probably processing through tomes of information about hysterical news broadcasters talking about the latest murder linked to the Cassaverdes. He could practically see the gears in her mind working. Loyalty to her boss, or the chance of getting killed herself? The choice was rather simple. She gulped, then handed him a paper. On it was inscribed the words 'Hugh Cassaverdes to see Mr. Boch" in capital letters. "Fourth floor." she squeaked, and after smiling tightly at the woman, Hugh set out towards the elevator.
A short, rather painless ride later, his heels were once again clicking against marble, this time towards Mr. Boch's office, clearly indicated to be at the end of the hall. He handed the paper nonchalantly to the skinny fake-blonde secretary on this floor, who after starting slightly at the name on the card, pressed a button, muttered "A Hugh Cassaverdes to see you, sir.", and motioned for Hugh to walk in to the office.
The first thing Hugh noticed about Mr. Boch was the sheer size of the man. Three hundred pounds, at least. Six feet four, he'd say, with hands the size of hams. Not letting his slight fear show on his face, he settled himself in the red velvet chair across from the man. "Mr. Boch", he began, "my father has sent me to settle some business he has with you. You owe him a sum of" - he drew a piece of paper out of his jacket -"Twenty-four thousand, six hundred and fourteen dollars. He would greatly appreciate it if you wold pay him back as soon as possible." It was the same shpiel for every old geezer. Give them a chance to pay up, and if they don't, bye-bye birdy.
Next thing he heard was the furious scribbling of a pen against paper. By the time he'd looked up, Mr. Boch was pressing a check into his hand, muttering , "Here, son. Tell your father that I'm not borrowing money from him anymore." Hugh smiled, nodding. "I'll tell him, sir." And with that, he got up and walked out the door, feeling the pistol hit his hip as he walked. Things always went more smoothly when whoever paid up.
No messy murder investigations.
Which was always nice.
His shoes clicked out the door and back onto the street, where he hailed another taxi and settled in, pulling out a phone. "Father, he paid up. Everything went smoothly. I'll send you the money soon." Flicking it close, he settled in for a nice ride to the bank. Ah. Now what to do the rest of the day?
