<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v622/Jagwaar/Sloane6_zps63e694fc.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Deacon Sloane<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>January 9th, 1874<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>The Back Room<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Miss Greene, Mr. Lee<br/><hr/><br/>Crossing the city to the other tavern this time of the year was a pain in the ass.  The hard snow on the ground, packed down by the endless pass of feet throughout the day was the least of it.  Sloane’s boots took care of that.  But the cold was bitter, and the wind coming down from the north always managed to find its way into his shoulder no matter how bundled up he was.  Even now, he could feel it biting through the heavy wool and bear fur collar of his coat to claw at his joints, reminding him of the injury that had ended his gunslinging days and pointing out that he was no longer a young man.  It made him even more ornery than usual as he walked to the god-cursed meeting called by Greene on a fucking moment’s notice.  There had better be some glorious goddamn reason for summoning him right in the middle of prime business hours.<br/><br/>Sloane stopped just inside Whiskey Nick’s to stomp the snow from his boots as he unbuttoned his coat, removing the black derby from his head in the process before he stepped into the main room of the tavern.  He returned Nick’s nod, knowing that he was late and the others would be waiting.  But some of Diana’s cooking sounded damn good after the freezing walk.  “Add a bottle of whiskey to my order,” he said, fishing out a ten dollar coin from his pocket and setting it on the bar before making his way through the tables to the back room.<br/><br/>Opening the door, Sloane walked through and shut it behind him, completely unsurprised to see the celestial whoremonger sitting at the lone table with Miss Greene, but it did up his curiosity a fair piece.  In his opinion, Lee’s den of eastern depravity wasn’t in the same league as either one of his or Greene’s businesses, though he did acknowledge that the man attracted a fair amount of a certain kind of clientele.  And yet here he was, with his pandering, obsequious little smile pasted to his face and dressed in a finely tailored suit, as if he was one of the finest and most respected businessmen in Gomorra, rather than the proprietor of the vilest brothel in the town.  Sloane liked to think of himself as an open minded man who didn't make judgments about others until they were earned, or on what they did for a living or to get their jollies; but Lee violated even his admittedly broadly defined and almost non existant limits.<br/><br/><em>‘Looks like the shit blizzard’s early today,’</em>Sloane thought, as he removed his coat and tossed it on a chair resting against the wall along with his hat while Greene offered him tea.  “Lord knows I do love that fucking Darjeeling,” Sloane replied, as he took an empty chair and made himself comfortable.  “But only half a cup.  I don’t want to ruin the taste of my whiskey.” Once the cup had been poured and offered, he reached into his suit pocket for a silver flask and emptied the contents into the cup.<br/><br/>“Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of being called away from my place of business just as the night’s commerce is heating up?” Sloane asked, directing his question to Miss Greene, knowing that she was likely instigator of this little soirée.<br/>