Mickey Walker

[Mickey] The call goes to whatever number Imogen supplied to Sarita. It's a local number, but she's never received a call from.

[Imogen Slaughter] The phone rings three times before it is answered. The greeting is brief, sharp and impersonal. "Slaughter."

In the background is the faint hiss of noise, too disjointed to identify the doctor's precise location.

[Mickey] There is a pause before a young woman's voice speaks up. "I'm sorry. Is this Imogen?"

[Imogen Slaughter] A brief beat. "It is. Who is this?"

[Mickey] "Sorry, my name's Mickey Walker," a small emphasis on her last name. "Sarita gave me you number, is this an okay time?"

[Imogen Slaughter] "I don't know any Sarita," she observes, almost absently, off-hand, as if this were of no consequence.

"Let me ask yeh what might sound like a strange question," and apparently it is of no consequence, as she moves on directly. "Is this a family matter?"

[Mickey] A pause as she says she doesn't know Sarita, a flick of a frown that Imogen can't see.

"No ma'am," she finally answers, voice respectful, "not a strange question to me. Definitely family related matter."

[Imogen Slaughter] "Mobile phones aren't precisely secure," she says, "There's a coffee shop on West Jackson called 'Intelligentsia'. Meet you there, shall I?"

So long as an agreement is met, Imogen says she will be there in about fifteen minutes and to look for the woman with the red hair, and rings off.

She is already there by the time Mickey arrives, seated at a table against the wall, facing the door. She is accurate in her description. Even if there were another red-headed or strawberry blonde or auburn-haired woman there, it is Imogen who blazes above them all. Vibrant red and roan, flame blasted hues are tied back sedately into a chignon.

She sits precisely, her poise perfect, her legs crossed at the knee, dressed in a business suit which only just shows the creases of a day at the office.

[Mickey] The woman on the other end of the phone agrees, and says she'll take a little longer- she's got public transport to take. Her own brief description is given, just in case, because one can't miss the young woman with read and black dreadlocks.

Mickey is certainly not as put together as the professional kin, but Imogen's voice and demeanor made her at least treat and clean up a bit. She's switched out her loose clothes from earlier for nice, black knee high boots and skinny jeans and a white button down shirt with a cami underneath it. Still, she doesn't have a jacket so she instead has a grey hoodie in lieu of one, that says 'volunteer' in big block letters on the back, and 'The Recovery Project' and 'CRA' across the left breast.

Slipping inside, she pushes the hood back and glances around, easily able to spot the good doctor. Not only is she the only bright redhead around, her demeanor and look easily matches her voice over the phone. Still, as she makes her way towards the table, she checks, "Miss Slaughter?"

[Imogen Slaughter] "Doctor, actually," it sounds more informational than a correction. "And you must be Ms. Walker." Briefly, the woman's dark blue eyes flick toward the acronym on the breast of her hoodie, then up again. "What can I do fer you?"

[Mickey] "Sorry, yes ma'am." She answers, not entirely sure -why- this woman makes her more polite then normal. "I offered to help with the company, near the Brotherhood? In what ways I could. Sarita told me to contact you."

Very simple, very frank. Straight to the point, as Imogen doesn't seem like a woman who likes to dance around things.

[Imogen Slaughter] The doctor watches briefly as Mickey takes a seat and does not particularly seem predisposed to correct or change the absolute politeness to more friendly terms. It is kind to call her aloof, and perhaps more accurate to consider her cold.

She considers Mickey, her eyes direct, unwavering. "I don't suppose yeh can tell me to which pack Sarita belongs," she says after a moment. "As a formality so at least I can trace yeh back."

[Mickey] Brown eyes blink slowly, and her nose wrinkles slightly as she realizes that she doesn't have any idea what pack Sarita belongs to. Fingers unzip the hoodie as she thinks, and then she shakes her head.

"I don't know which pack," she admits, looking vaguely embarrassed. "I can tell you she's the No Moon Elder though. She said she just got the position."

[Imogen Slaughter] She nods slightly. "That's enough." A coffee cup sits on the table, and she reaches for it.

"So how can yeh help?"

[Mickey] "It's more finding out what I can do to help with this," the woman admits, tangling her fingers in her lap so she doesn't fidget. "I... was sick when the whole mess went down, so rather than dive in and step on toes, I figured it be better to ask what I can do."

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's eyebrow arches above the rim of her lifted cup, and she rights it, setting it down with a faint click. A smirk twists her mouth, amusement lingering.

"I suppose th'question is more 'what are yeh capable o' doing'. Then I can help point yeh in the right direction on how yeh can help."

[Mickey] That makes her grin, ever so slightly. "I got a good ear to the underground, with some friends in low places. I know the city like the back of my hand and people tend t'like to talk to me. Workin' with the CRA tends to give me a good, broad understanding of what's up and what's down as of late. More illegal, then legal, obviously."

[Imogen Slaughter] "Good," she does not smile, but there is no falseness to what she says, and her eyes do not move or twitch from Mickey. It is genuine, even if it is not warm.

"We've been lookin' ver anything remotely illegal about th'goings on near the Caern. The more details we get, the better we will be able to direct law enforcement officials, or perhaps leak to the media. The goal, really, is this: we defame th'company and make it less politic fer politicians to continue greasing the wheels fer them, and we start t'encourage legal investigation into their doings. Th'best case scenario would be t'get a large chunk o' them arrested and the land seized under racketeering laws, but that's unlikely.

"I'd suggest yeh start diggin' fer things they might be doin' illegally. If yeh ha' contacts wi' the underground, it may be beneficial fer you to look into enemies o' the Scarpesci family. We could use some o' their weaknesses. Then we can figure out how to use it against them."

[Mickey] At the very least, she seems to understand what Imogen is saying and listens quietly. Brown eyes narrow a bit as she notes what they eventually hope to do and the names of those she needs to look into. Her contacts have always been more gang related, but even gangs have beef with the mob.

"I can do that," Mickey answers after a moment, voice thoughtful. "I can definitely do that. Anything I find should be fed back through you?"

[Imogen Slaughter] A brief consideration. "For now. There are others involved, but I believe their current investigatory avenues are legal, rather than underground. Should I hear from them, I will put them in touch wi' you.

"One more thing - yeh need to put layers between yerself and whatever you try and do. We need to make sure we're protected or we won't be o' any use to anyone. Once we ha' more details on what we can do, we will decided on precisely what we will do, and go from there."

[Mickey] "So don't do anything but gather information right now?" She asks for clarification. "Or... just don't put my name out there for now? If it's the second one, I can't promise- the people I'm gonna ask know me."

[Imogen Slaughter] "Ask them t'keep yer name out o' it, and ask them to try and do what they're doing as discretely as possible," she answers, "put another layer between them and gettin' the answer if yeh can.

"As fer what we'll do - well. Somethings ha' already begun, but in yer particular case," her mouth twists slightly, "I think I would like some warning before yeh start a gang war. If there are subtle things - insidious things yeh can do, go ahead, but we're startin' slowly, as best we can."

[Mickey] "Despite what gang contacts I have," the be-dreaded kin says dryly, "I generally try and stay out of gang 'bizness', it's one hot mess I don't want to be involved in."

Her grin softens to a lopsided smile though, and she nods. "I'll make sure to try and keep my name out of it. Helps I don't go by my real name really."

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen leans back, considering the other. "Did yeh use your real name when introducing yourself to me?" she enquires, the question more curious than dark.

[Mickey] "It's the name I go by but no," she answers, head tilted. "That's not my real, legal name."

[Imogen Slaughter] A beat, then she nods. "All right. Good then, are you?"

[Mickey] "Yes ma'am," she answers, grinning a little bit. "Thank you."

[Imogen Slaughter] A moment, then another nod. Imogen picks up her coffee mug and drains it, setting it down as she gets to her feet, plucking her jacket from the back of her chair and slipping it on.

"Need a lift to the El?" she enquires as she straightens her jacket over her blazer and blouse.

[Mickey] Surprise flits over her face and she nods, zipping her hoodie back up. "That... that be great, actually. Thanks."

[Imogen Slaughter] The doctor tilts her head toward the door. "Come on," she says.

Imogen drives, to put it bluntly, an utterly masterful car. The 2005 Aston Martin is black and sleek and mean looking, and even several years out of date is a veritable map of luxury. The engine roars when she starts it, the interior smells of carpet shampoo and leather.

She does not talk much - answering if spoken to, perhaps offering something of dry wit. She does, however, take one Mickey Walker (actual name unknown) to the El station and drop her off, safe and sound. Then she drives away.