| Details for Friend of My Friend |
| Summary: | Sloan tries to recruit Berg's help in looking after a few friends. |
| Date: | October 06, 1937 |
| Location: | Leaky Cauldron |
| Related: | — |
| Characters |
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The pounding can be heard even from outside the Leaky Cauldron. Within, the enormous Berg has one hand bracing a rafter beam, while another wields a mallet to drive thick nails into place. It isn't the first rafter he's repaired…because it isn't the first he's broken. The Cauldron just isn't made for a wizard his size.
It's not often Sloan comes into the cauldron looking for anybody. Usually the cauldron is his quiet time when he's not really looking to fight (He goes to the Fish or the Drum to do that), but he's not really willing to talk to others either. (He's never really WILLING) Pausing as he looks around, he nods as he noticed Berg. Man was nearly impossible to miss afterall. Unless you were nearsighted and managed to mistake him for a load bearing wall. Moving quietly towards the half Giant, Sloan nods to the man, standing just out of reach due to force of habit and grunts. "Need be talkin' to ye if ye've a moment tae spare Berg." Looking up at the job he's doing he adds. "When ye're done tha' of course."
Bobbie is seated at the bar, legs crossed, a glass of what looks like whiskey in front of her, along with a notebook in which she's rapidly scribbling with a Muggle-looking pencil. The pounding makes her look up, though. And wince at the noise, though it's apparently not so loud that it drives her to complain. The Leaky Cauldron is hardly the place to go for quiet.
Berg pauses in his hammering (much to the thanks of many half-deafened patrons) to look down to the Irish Auror. "Aye, sure, mate," he rumbles in his deep baritone. He swings his mallet to give the nail one more solid POUND, which causes dust motes to drift down from several other rafters. Satisfied with his work, her turns around to look at Sloan, belly-to-eye. "What yer need?"
Looking up at Berg, Sloan grunts. "Me? I need a capable friend, aye? ye a drinkin' man Berg?"
Bobbie is grateful for the pause in hammering. She even quips a wry, "Thanks," in Sloan's direction, for his interruption of the half-giant's manual labor. Apart from that she's more interested in her notebook than the pair of them. She adds some squiggly lines, puts an X through something or other. And then, after a moment's squinting, spits on the page. And rubs said spit around on it with her finger. It blurs her writing pencil marks, which is apparently what she was going for.
Berg chuckles, grinning broadly at Sloan. "I like to drink." He lowers himself to one of the sturdy wooden benches, which bows dangerously under his weight. "You need somethin' fixed?" He points up at the rafter. "I can fix things."
Settling across the table from Berg, Sloan shakes his head. "Nae. I'm lookin' tae keep things from gettin' broken lad." Forget Berg was his elder. Waving down the server, he Arders a bottle of glenfiddich, looking at Berg incase he wants something else, he nods off handedly to Bobbie as well. "Nae problem lass."
Bobbie offers Sloan a little two-fingered salute in return for his nod. And then finishes her whiskey, and orders another. She takes her wand out while it's being delivered, squinting some more and idly waving it over her notepad. Her scribbles begin to move, though she frowns at what they end up doing.
Berg gives the wench a sheepish smile. "Maybe my usual?" The server sighs, muttering something about bringing out the serving cart. "So, what needs…not-breakin'?" Berg has a simple, direct way about him.
Looking at Berg for a moment, Sloan offers the ghost of a smile. "The O'Shea family. I'd like ye tae make friends wit' Keenan an' Niamh. Went tae tha' Repealment rally th' other night, an' things aren't settlin' well wi' me, aye? Calls it paranoia if ye likes but either way. I wants ye tae become bosom buddies wi' them. If nothin' else, ye seem tae be a good man, or 2 good men by the sizin' of ye, an they's got a soft spot fer good men. Could 'elp ye out some when ye needs it. If bad comes tae worse, then I wants ye there when th'blood runs. Someone watchin their backs when I can't, and just as important, someone watchin yers."
The words 'Repealment Rally' perk Bobbie's ears. She makes herself keep her eyes fixed on her scribbly notes, but a flick of her wand stops the spinning she'd charmed a moment ago. So she's sort of eavesdropping. Though she tries not to be too obvious about it.
Berg blinks, clearly confused. "Peel mint rally? What's that? What's this about blood runnin'?" His thick brow furrows, overshadowing a frown. "I don't wanna hurt no one."
Sighing quietly, Sloan shakes his head. "Don't want ye hurtin' no one Berg. I does my own work where that's concerned. Yer what I calls a Deterrent. Ye know of Grindelwald?"
Bobbie is a little startled by the bar keep when he finally brings her her whiskey. Though she does manager to mutter something vaguely resembling thanks to him, and sip at it. A few knuts change hands before he returns to work another customer.
Berg stares for a moment, then nods. "I heard summa them Gringotts folks talkin' 'bout Grinnawald last time I went to Norway wif 'em. Sayin' he's tryin' to change things. I din't listen much." When Berg's drink comes, it is, indeed, on a cart. The small barrel of beer is hauled to the table for a very grateful Berg.
Looking at Berg's drink, Sloan smiles slightly and fishes in his pocket. coming out with a handful of coins he sets them on the table before fishing in his other pocket. setting a pair of studded brass knuckles on the table along with more odds and ends for coins. he frowns and slips the bowler from his head. a couple of Dollar coins are found there, before he slips his boot off and checks under the insole. in the end what he finds on his person ~just~ covers the drinks in the equivalent of pocket change. pushing it over to the bar wench, minus the brass knuckles, those he slips back in his pocket, he pours himself a tumbler of scotch and pours it down his throat. "Well bein' as unbiased as I can manage, aye? Th' Beggar has in mind fer wizards tae take their places as rulers o' the world. they wants tae make ourselves known tae th'muggle types, aye? Don' sound too bad, but I'm rememberin when th' Bloody Pommies did th'same tae Ireland. There's still fightin' in th' streets o'er tha' one. An ye can call me paranoid, likely I am. But I sees nae good comin o' this. I'm lookin' tae lay plans tae protect as many of me friends as I can. S'where ye comes in. Din' want ye hurtin' nobody, I just wants ye tae make friends wi' the O'Shea family, aye? an if things goes the way I'm hopin' they won't. They'll think twice 'fore goin' after them. I won't lie. I come to ye because if there's one man in England I'd think twice 'fore toein' th'line agin, it jes' might be you. Ye understand what I'm sayin'?"
Bobbie frowns at the chatter around her, which is breaking her concentration from both snooping into business that isn't her own and whatever it is she's writing. She finishes her drink, eyes the glass and the barkeep, but after some thought doesn't order another. Her bill paid, she hops off her barstool, gathers her work (such as it is) under an arm, and heads out of the bar. Heels clicking as she goes.
Berg nods soberly. He understands. A man like him doesn't get to his age without facing a few battles. "I unnerstan'. I done bodyguardin' a'fore. I know what you mean." He takes a heavy quaff of his beer, which amounts to about a pint going down his gullet. "You really think them Oh-Shays will be in danger?"
Considering that as he pours himself another drink. This one chasing the first down his gullet in Sloan's usual declaration of war on his liver, he grunts. "Nae more than any other non pure-blood Berg. But they're th' closest thing I have tae family, aye? their Da used tae see to it I had new robes every fall when I went back tae school after me ma died. They're good people, an I plans tae do everythin' in me power tae protect them, even if it is unnecessary, aye?"
Berg scratches his impressive sideburns as he thinks, which is a time-consuming task. "Okay. I don' see nuffin' wrong wif makin' new friends. And I always look after my friends." He empties the barrel to half-full, sighing pleasantly after. "You gonna innerduce us?"
Nodding slightly, Sloan grunts. "Aye Berg. I'll make th' introductions. When be a good time fer ye?" A third tumbler poured down his throat, he begins rolling a cigarette quietly in his left hand. "Ye smoke?"
Berg shakes his head. "Only a pipe. Big pipe." He scratches his sideburn again. One would hope he doesn't have fleas. "I'm here a lot, lately. But I'm not workin' right now. So…anytime?"
Nodding Slightly, Sloan tosses back another tumbler of whiskey and looks at the bottle. Handing it to the big man as well, he grunts. "I'll be along soon then. and friends goes both ways lad. ye need something, ye can be findin' me in Hoxton or down tae th' docks if ye know of th'Drum. aye?"
Berg nods. He doesn't get out into the Muggle world often. It attracts too much attention. But it's those dingier, seedier places he tends to know best. "I knows 'em. And…fanks." He gives Sloan a big, toothy grin. New friends are not something to take lightly.
Touching the brim of his Bowler, Sloan grunts. "Oi. nae problem. Be seein' ye soon Berg." With that, the Irishman heads out the door, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his slacks.