Veronica's ruby-colored lips parted in surprise, the skin around her dark eyes growing white with fury as what he'd just said sunk in. From behind him, he heard Leon sigh. The Castiglioni second, who had stayed quietly a few yards behind Veronica, now stepped forward, his chest puffing like some ridiculous rooster.

Remi didn't say anything more. He didn't need to.

"I'm... not quite sure what you mean, Mr. Robicheaux," she said, sitting up straighter.

The nail was stopped between his index finger and thumb, the point aimed at Veronica. He affected a slightly pained expression. "Please don't insult me."

Eyes narrowing now, she stiffly replied, "If I have offended you it was not—"

"Yes it was," Remi cut in, his tone easy and amused. Like he was having fun here. He set the nail down, the chinking sound making Veronica look down. He tapped his fingers against the metal and sat back a little. "But that's all right."

Her eyes flicked back up to his, and he smiled, knowing that this time, it wasn't a very nice sort of smile.

"What're you runnin'?" he asked again.

She pursed her lips, her long lashes sweeping down. Her body tensed, twisting slightly at the waist before she stopped, like she had wanted to look over her shoulder, then changed her mind. The indecision showed clearly on her face.

Silence was a tool most others in his world simply refused to employ. So they found it incredibly unnerving when he did use it. He could see it working now, in the way her fingers twisted into her skirt and her shoulders bunched ever so slightly.

Eyes never leaving his, she said, "We've come into a recent arrangement with the Chinese."

"Mm." He let a silent laugh lift his chest, then shook his head with a small tsking sound. "You know I'm working on a deal with the Cartel."

It wasn't a question.

"Our deal with the Chinese is not your deal," she protested.

"Yes, but if you buy from the Chinese, then sell their product in New Orleans—which everyone knows you've got to deal with me to get into—then by proxy I am dealing with the Chinese." He picked up the nail again, tapping it against the table so that his fingers slid down it with every strike until he got to the end, then flipped it over and started the process again.

Really, he was dealing with the Chinese anyway. But neither Veronica nor the Cartel needed to know that.

Veronica's hands were fists in her lap, the skin stretched thinly over her knuckles. She shook her head. "No," she said, "that is not how this business works, Mr. Robicheaux. I understand that you're... new to this, but—"

"Don't patronize me," he interrupted. "Just 'cause I don't come from some family with a name, doesn't mean I don't know how to play this game. The mafia didn't invent organized crime, dear, it just got good at it." 

She batted those long, dark eyelashes at him again.

"That is, in actuality, exactly how this works, Miss Castiglioni." He smiled slightly, like he had found himself saying something amusing. "Don't try to sucker me. My mother wasn't in the business of raisin' fools. Now, if you would like to treat this professionally, as an actual discussion, then I'm more than happy to talk numbers with you. If not..." He stood up. "Good day."

He turned and got two steps before she said, "Wait!"

Not turning, he smiled, then winked at Leon, whose face didn't move a millimeter.

"Mr. Robicheaux, I simply meant that the Chinese will have very little to do with the dealings down here. We buy from them in New York or Los Angeles and would like to bring it here."

Very, very slowly, he turned back around, raising an eyebrow at her. He didn't move to sit back down.

With a barely concealed look of frustration, she said, "Our dealings are our dealings and we will keep them out of your territory."

"I believe we've established that if you're building in the Ninth, you're runnin' in the Ninth. And if you're runnin' in the Ninth, you're runnin' in my territory. Runnin' in my territory makes it part of my dealings." He straightened the cuffs of his suit jacket. He wondered if the dark blue he had rejected earlier would have shown the cufflinks better.

Veronica's chin raised, her chest expanding once with an angry breath. Her mouth drew even tighter, until it looked like she'd been sucking on a lemon. Not blinking, she looked like some kind of dangerous, exotic snake.

He waited.

Shifting one last time in her seat, she said, "Perhaps we could come to some sort of agreement?"

Putting on a small expression of surprise, one that effectively said 'my, what an idea', he tilted his head with curiosity, gesturing for her to continue.

Once more, his silence unnerved her.

"We would be willing to pay an... entry fee, if you will," she began.

He took one, measured step toward the table and the Italian. The muscles in her neck were slightly corded, prominent lines in her throat as she clenched her jaw.

"We could give you," she looked him up and down, "two percent."

Now a truly amused smile made an appearance, a laugh rushing from his nose, and he looked up, trying to stop himself from laughing outright. Looking back down, he closed his eyes for a moment, raising his eyebrows. "Mm," the sound came from the back of his throat, "that's a pittance compared to what I know you'll make."

"Would you have a number to suggest then?" she nearly snapped, displeased by his reaction in front of the men she'd brought with her.

He had seen another up on a catwalk, crouched next to a support beam. That still left two more to find.

Tapping his finger once against the nail, he said, "Well, let's see. You want to bring... heroin?" he guessed. When she nodded, he continued, "Heroin, into a port city. A tourist city, where headlines involving overdoses don't look too good. Then you want to set up shop in one of the poorest district in New Orleans?"

She nodded, the movement so stiff as to look painful.

"You're a daisy if you do," he said, scoffing. He ran his tongue along his teeth. "Actually, you'll do no such thing just paying me two percent of something that'll earn you four, five million on a bad day?" He turned his head slightly. "What's heroin goin' for these days, Leon?"

"Depends on the quality," was the quick reply. Then, when Remi twitched a finger at him, he continued, "High quality can go from anywhere from fifty to a hundred a pop. Depends on who you're selling to. Lower quality... fifteen to forty maybe. Still depends on how bad someone wants it, I suppose."

Remi shook his head, partly in wonder, partly in disgust. His fingers wiggled again, and he tapped the tips of his fingers to his thumb like he was counting. Turning his head to look fully at his second, he smirked and said, "That's what? Like, three hundred a day?"

"On the very low end." Leon nodded in agreement. He added, "That's per street guy."

He whistled quietly, then turned back to Veronica, his hands in his pockets. "The low end," he repeated. "Which means on a good day, you're making a whole lot more than five."

She held his gaze for a moment before looking down, not moving her head. The fist in her lap had loosened.

"Tell you what," Remi said generously. "I will tell you what. How about I just give you a number, you pay it, and everyone's happy. Everyone makes a little money today."

"I believe you mean a lot of money," Leon said from behind him.

His grin widened. "You know I think I did. I do think that's exactly what I meant."

"Just name your price," Veronica suddenly interjected, her voice sharp.

With a little sigh, he sobered. "Okay," he said, sitting down and picking up the nail again. He pursed his lips in thought. "Twenty-five percent monthly sounds about right."

He wondered if he'd maybe caused a stroke when her eyes went wide and her face went an apoplectic shade of red. She didn't speak for a very long time, and he was okay with that.

It was a ridiculous sum, after all. 

When she still didn't speak, he sighed, then looked at his watch. He didn't have anything else to do today, but it still got a reaction from her.

It fascinated him that even with how hard she shook her head, her hair didn't move an inch.

She leapt to her feet, fists clenched at her sides, and started swearing at him in Italian. He didn't know very much, but he knew enough to understand that he did not like what she was saying.

He let her rage on for a bit, then held up a hand. It took her a minute to fall quiet.

"Now look, I'm a reasonable man," he frowned when she snorted, "and I'm willing to bend a little."

She raised one of those severe eyebrows, crossing her arms.

He blinked as she reminded him of someone, then scowled. "I could perhaps be persuaded to take my cut yearly, though, that will be an awful lot of money that you'll need to figure out how to get to me."

Mouth dropping open like she couldn't believe his audacity, she said, "Do you realize what you are asking from us?" She shook her head, voice rising in volume and pitch. "I can't! And I simply won't."

"Don't pay the piper and you might find you've been taken for everything," he warned, not bothering to be amiable anymore. The vision in his left peripheral blotted out for an uncomfortable second.

She stood up, her beautiful face blank. "I'm sorry we couldn't come to an agreement, Mr. Robicheaux."

The nail danced across the back of his knuckles. Her stilettos tapped across the old, oil-stained concrete. He let her walk away, waiting.

Leon cleared his throat, but Remi just held up a finger, signaling for him to wait. He'd rubbed off most of the rust on the nail.

Veronica waved an elegant hand, and one of the big shop doors was pulled open, letting sunlight flood into the warehouse. He'd found her last two thugs.

Just before she stepped outside, she hesitated and Remi let out a little sigh of validation. "I know people here, Miss Castiglioni," he called.

Her hesitation turned into a full stop. 

He stood, buttoning his jacket. The knife in his sleeve shifted slightly, sharp edge teasing at the delicate skin on the inside of his wrist.

"I know someone on every crew you'd hire, every board you'd have to get certified through, OSHA even," he continued, voice calm, but loud enough to carry easily across the space between them. 

She turned.

"But good luck getting that hotel built in my city," he said with a smile.

This time, he was the one to turn away and stride toward the door. Leon's dark eyes watched everything behind him, but he didn't ever appear alarmed, so Remi didn't worry about catching a bullet just yet. He drew even with Leon, who didn't turn with him to walk to the door.

"Ten percent!" Veronica called, her voice furious.

He stopped just in the door frame, looking out at the muggy day. The light hurt.

Leon muttered, "They do fifteen mil in a month, that's giving you one and a half."

With a sigh, he turned halfway, simultaneously looking dismissive and not outlining himself quite so well in the bright doorway. A headache was building right behind his eyes. God he hated politics.

He weighed his pride against his greed. Then he weighed those two against his logic.

"Twenty," he said.

"Thirteen," she countered, and a small smile appeared at the corner of her red mouth. 

"One point nine," Leon whispered, that genius mind of his running through the math easily. He added, "And that's only if they do fifteen."

"How do we know when they make more?" Remi murmured,

"We'll know," Leon said, voice still soft, but with a keen edge to it that made Remi smile.

"Monthly?" he asked, speaking loud enough for Veronica to hear.

She tilted her head, like she was considering this, but it was all for show. He knew he had her.

Accent a little thicker than it had been at the beginning of the meeting, she shrugged elegantly, and said, "That would be agreeable to us. But we would ask you give us five months free to get business flowing."

"I'll give you three. And just because I'm feeling generous, I'll help you get those hotels built."

"Hm." The sound was pitched to be pleased. "You would do that?"

"I see no reason why we can't be friendly." He tried not to grimace.

Veronica smiled, the expression ice cold. "Very well, Mr. Robicheaux. Someone will be in contact with you soon."

"Pleasure," he replied. "Anything you need, you come to me."

In a way, it was a threat as well as an offer. And judging by Veronica's face, she understood the implication that she was to do nothing without his consent.

All she did was nod, then leave.

They waited until they heard three separate vehicles pull away, then Remi leaned against the door frame, rubbing at his temples.

"Well, that's more than we figured we'd get from them," Leon said, his phone already out of his pocket. "Moira called."

Remi waved it off.

"She'll be worried."

"Then deal with it. I don't have the patience." He took his keys out of his pocket and started across the gravel to his car, Leon right behind him.

"Where are you going?"

Remi was certain he didn't like the accusation in Leon's tone. Rolling his neck, he said, "Don't worry about it, yeah?"

"I always worry." His voice was distinctly lacking in any concern.

Grimly amused, Remi unlocked his car. He tilted his head from side to side, getting the bones in his neck to pop a little, but not enough. His headache was still there.

Glancing down, he asked, "Those the new ones?"

Leon looked down and realized Remi was asking about his shoes. With a small grin, he stomped his heel lightly into the ground, a spring-loaded, double-edge blade popping free from the toe of the shoe with a silvery shick sound.

"Nice," Remi said with a nod. "New guy?"

"Old guy, new design."

"They look good," he said absently. "Don't even think about using that."

Leon moved his foot away from the Aston's front left tire, giving Remi a look of deep offense. He walked over to the outbuilding they were parked nearby, and used the wooden slates to carefully push the blade back into the shoe, reloading it.

He dusted off his suit, then said, "Anything else, Mr. Robicheaux?"

"No, that will be all, Alfred," he said, unable to resist mocking him just a very little bit.

Unfortunately, Leon never rose to the bait. Instead, he nodded and got into his Mercedes, carefully pulling away after Remi fell into the Aston.

He bent his head forward, trying to stretch the tight muscles in his neck to relieve the pain in his head, but with no success. Looking at his watch, he shook his head, which just made the backs of his eyeballs throb in time with his heartbeat.

With a muttered curse, he dug a pair of sunglasses out of the glovebox, hoping the tint would reduce the pain. Or, at the very least, wouldn't let the glare from the sun add to it. He looked at his watch again, then started the car.

Screw it.

He could do what he wanted to. He'd worked hard to make sure of that, and he'd be damned if he didn't reap the rewards.

He held the gas and the clutch until the tires were spitting rocks and the engine was screaming, then let it go, the car spinning in a half-circle before it bolted back down the gravel drive. Sliding sideways across four lanes of traffic, he laughed at the honking horns, then headed for the Quarter.

Traffic slowed him down a little, but he made good enough time to St. Ann Street. He parked, then sat in the car for a second, trying to quiet the throbbing in his head. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.

Finally he got sick of acting like a dumbass teenager and got out of the car. He made his way to the front of the house, his eyes playing 'eenie-meenie-mynee-mo' between the two doors. The left hand door won, and he made his way up the steps.

Curious, he tried the doorknob and found it locked. This made him smile, but only momentarily. It turned to a frown when he realized he didn't have the key.

All he had on him was the knife, since he hadn't realized breaking and entering would be needed today, but didn't want to destroy the red paint of the door. He squeezed his eyes shut as a fresh wave of pain tried to convince him to just go back home and sleep it off.

The door was flung open and a small shriek had him clutching his head, feeling like a drill bit was making its way through his grey matter.

"Remi," Charlie said on a breathed out sigh. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He couldn't answer just yet, black dots still swarming around his peripherals. A warm hand on his arm made him startle, but he didn't pull away.

"Are you... Remi?" she asked, sounding tentative. "Are you okay?"

"I get migraines," he gritted out. He had since he was a boy, but they had become progressively worse as he got older. No one had been able to explain why he got such bad headaches, but at the very least he knew what it wasn't.

When he could finally stand straight again, he did, then looked down at her. Her lips were pursed and she was dressed in a simple blue tank top and a pair of black workout shorts. She was barefoot, and her hair was in a messy bun at the nape of her neck. A few red strands had escaped and hung around her face.

She took off his sunglasses, making him shy away from the painful light.

Starting to swear at her, he stopped when she took his face in her hands, staring up at him with a keen light in her eyes, her mouth a thin line. Then, she sighed and let him go. She stepped to the side, gesturing him forward.

"Fine, okay, inside," she said, her tone short and displeased.

Remi gave her a reproachful look, but couldn't quite manage it and almost stumbled over the step up into the house.

He nearly vomited when the smell of fresh paint hit him, making his eyes water. Pressing the back of his hand to his mouth for a second, he swallowed the nausea and looked around to find the furniture pushed in toward the middle of the room, and a quarter of the mint green walls painted a new light grey.

"What are you doing?" he managed as he looked down at her again.

This time, he noticed the dots of paint across her face, and the streak on her thigh and forearm.

"Painting," she said, mercifully keeping her voice soft.

His stomach heaved again, and he must have turned white, because she took a step toward him, then hovered, looking uncertain. Then she shook her head, like she couldn't believe this was happening.

Carefully, she wrapped an arm around his waist, but he jerked away as soon as he started to lean into her. He'd never let the pain win before, and he wasn't about to start now.

Annoyed, she pointed to the white stairs and snapped, "I haven't painted upstairs, and if you would freaking lay down I might be able to help make it hurt less."

He blinked, still feeling sick, then nodded and trudged up the stairs. His breath came in small pants between his gritted teeth as he got to the top, then turned into the first bedroom he came across.

A piece of cloth slipped under his feet, nearly sending him to the red oak floors. Looking down in an accusatory fashion, he paused when he found his shirt balled up on the floor.

"Lay down," Charlie said softly from behind him.

He turned slowly to look at her as she came up to stand next to him. Her blue eyes met his, still looking sort of angry.

A weird aura of light blotted out the left side of her face, and he gingerly stretched out on the light green bed with a low moan as the mattress pressed into the back of his tender skull.

Fun Fact: The title of this chapter (and one of Remi's lines) was actually an extremely famous one said by my all time favorite Old West historical figure. John Henry "Doc" Holliday was reported to have said this during the gunfight at the OK Corral in Tombstone, Arizona. Eyewitnesses reported that one of his opponents, Frank McLaury, got Doc at gunpoint and said, "I've got you now, you son of a bitch." Doc's response, said rather cheerfully according to witnesses and newspapers from the time, was the words you first read. Basically, what it means for those not familiar with 1880s slang, is "you're a marvelous person if you can." McLaury was then promptly shot, once by Doc in the chest, then in the head by Morgan Earp. So, turns out, he wasn't a daisy :)

Also, doctors don't know what exactly causes migraines, or the physiology of them. Go figure, right?