I’m not too much interested in drug wars, but I am interested in having a good time. While I wait for the dealer’s brother to contact me, and for Ken to come up with something, I’ve been taking things easy again. There’s a contest called the “PCJ Playground”, where contestants try to complete a stunting course under a minute in a half, and it stretches for a few miles. It’s a promotional thing meant to advertise the abilities of the PCJ 600, and whoever finally does it gets a free PCJ 600.
I prefer chopper-style bikes, but the contest sounds like fun, so I’ve been trying my hand at it. So far, all of my attempts have been failures, but that doesn’t mean much. I’ll get better, and keep trying. A similar promotional thing is being held by some new Tiki bar: they’ve put one hundred tiki statues all over the city in obscure locations, and whoever is able to map out all one hundred locations gets a ton of money. In the meantime, people are hearing about the tiki bar all the time and are going there to spend their money. Nice idea. I’ve been working on this one, too: so far I’ve found thirty of them in strange locations -- parking deck corners, under bridges, in back alleys, that kind of thing. I’ve heard rumors that some of them are on top of roofs, so I need to establish a way of getting access to that.
I can’t fool around too much, though. There are angry Italians who want me to find their money. So, I go to Rosenberg, who is…calming down, a little bit. He’s actually going home now. He leaves the office. It’s impressive, for a man who now thinks there are Sicilian hitmen lurking around every corner.
It’s been nearly three weeks since the ambush, and when I go inside today I see a stranger -- a guy wearing a wig.
“Not in person, no,” I say. I saw him. Didn’t pay attention to his name, though. It seems Rosenberg is trying to get a handle on things, generating business for us: he’s recommend my services as a professional goon to this amateur goon. Lovely. I’m a hood for hire now. The Wig wants me to go “stir up a hornet’s nest” at a local business to convince them to abandon some land he wants, or something like that. Boils down to him giving me money for causing trouble. That, I can handle.
I pay a visit to the place the next morning and learn there are some serious labor/management issues. The workers can’t unionize -- this is the South -- but they’re pissed about wages, so they’re striking anyway. I decide to mingle.
“I hear they’re about to hire forty new workers,” I say. “Going to throw us all out on the streets.” Rabble-rouser, that’s me. I start whispering sweet nothings into workers’ ears, spreading rumors about how they’re going to blackball us from work in Vice City. I start yelling at management’s offices, saying we should burn the place down. The workers start yelling -- some at me, some at the offices. When I fire my trusty shotgun at the building…jesus! The cops-for-hire go beserk, and the workers charge the fucking gate. A brawl breaks out, and I sneak off to the side until the coast is clear, then bolt inside the truck yard.
Avery wants me to destroy their trucks, parked near a big gallon of gasoline. That simplifies things nicely. The fire that starts scatters the employees, and I walk out, too -- after spotting a tiki statue behind the building and writing the location down. My phone rings. It’s Cortez.
No shit. He tells me he’s investigating the manner, and would like to meet with me at his boat. Hot damn -- there’s my door in to Cortez. Maybe when I see the helicopter guy next time around, I’ll have something to tell him. In the meantime, the Wig has other goon work for me.
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