<hr/><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/8b/Maxbaine_2.png)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Max Baine<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Sweetrock (Vice President)<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 11th, 1876.<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Early evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Private offices<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Closed, Walter<br/><hr/>There was a time when Max Baine might have waxed eloquent for hours about profit and loss, about the prospect of future employment and long term benefit.  He had a way about him, when he got to speaking, and it had once convinced an entire little town of the wisdom of a silent auction for the ghost rock mines scattered about its mesas.  He used to take pride in his ability to talk men into just about anything, and where greed was concerned, it was so much easier.  But while greed might have motivated Walter in so many ways, he didn’t think it was at the core of what truly drove him.  There was a distinction between wealth and power - a fine one, some people believed, but there were those with all the wealth in the world who still couldn’t earn respect no matter how many double eagles they flashed, and men who commanded respect and power when they were little more than paupers.<br/><br/>He pushed the drink forward, across the table, and then leaned back.  “Well… this is a little better than the coffin varnish they serve down at Tourist’s Folly.  I’m sorry to pull you away from the grand opening, but what I have shouldn’t take long.”<br/><br/>He tilted his head, then winced, straightening again.  He’d quickly learned that attempting to rub the skin when it gave him a jolt of agony was like trying to scratch an itch with lightning bolts.  It might get the job done, but the cure was worse than the disease.<br/><br/><em>“Have you ever been down to the Perch, Walter?  I used to fancy the place myself.  Dive off the edge of a cliff and into the Garden of Eden.  Good booze, good food, and more pussy than any man can sink his cock into in one night.  Stay an hour… stay all night.  Price is the same.  That - that is a divine kind of entertainment.”</em>The words crossed his mind, but he didn’t say them aloud.  Bribery, yes, and likely to be appreciated by a man like Walter.  Also, seen through in a heartbeat.  Buying a man’s loyalty was easy, but it never lingered in the thick of things.  Findley had far greater resources to bring to bear than did Max, in that regard.  He wasn’t penniless - he’d been Vice President of Sweetrock for long enough that he could retire tomorrow and live out his days in wealth and comfort.<br/><br/>But what would have been the point? No amount of wealth could truly buy him comfort any longer.<br/><br/><em>”Do as I say or you’ll be dead in the night, tossed over the side of the mesa and eaten by sharks.”</em><br/><br/>The thought was barely formed before he was dismissing it.  You didn’t slap a loyal dog - it only confused it.  Turned it bitter, and hostile.  No, Walter wasn’t a man he cared to threaten - not because he feared him.  He didn’t doubt that Walter could kill him - just as he didn’t doubt that Walter probably wouldn’t live long after he’d completed his task.  In some ways, death would be a welcome release.<br/><br/>But then, what would the point have been?  A bank account lying flush and untapped, a dead body in a graveyard?  For all the blood and sweat and burning, he wanted his life - whatever he accomplished with it here - to have born some kind of fruit.<br/><br/>No.  Not threats, not bribery - flattery was almost laughably transparent, so he instead tried a tactic he rarely used.<br/><br/>”One way or the other, I intend to become Sweetrock’s man here in Gomorra.  I used to be the legman.  Not the man with the gun, but the man who made things happen.  A deal to close -  I closed it.  A strike to break - I broke it.  Found the right tools for the job, applied the right leverage.  Whatever it took.  I got my hands dirty when I had to - but I didn’t always have to.”<br/><br/>He gestured to himself, assuming Walter would realize the obvious but saying it anyway.  “I can’t be that man anymore.  But I intend to move up.  To do that - I need someone who can find the right tools, the right leverage, and will do whatever it takes.  Big Jake, Scooter - they aren’t the men for that job.  Useful tools, but they don’t see the chessboard for the pieces.”  He licked his lips, then wet them with another sip of the brandy, holding the glass in his hand by force of will.  It shook, barely.<br/><br/>“Do what I need done, and I’ll make you my Vice President when I sit in the big chair.  Within a few months you’ll have enough money to buy a distillery and a ‘bloody’ whorehouse.”  He gave a ghost of a smile as he used the British pejorative.  “Or enough money to sail back to Britain and buy yourself land and title.”  He waved his good hand.  “Whatever you want.  When the rail finish construction - things here will change.  This area has had the richest strikes since the discovery of ghost rock.  The rails will bleed more money than you or I or Howard Findley have ever seen in their whole lives, and we’ll sell them every strike in the area, tapped and untapped, and be rich enough to buy an entire country.”<br/><br/>Findley was under the illusion they might somehow be able to keep control of the town and the mines when the rails reached them - under the impression the rails would negotiate like honest businessmen, instead of storming the town with enough guns to kill everyone that moved.  Baine was no fool - he’d seen the labor camps of the Iron Dragon; he’d been to Deadwood and seen the crates and crates of guns the warlord was selling to the Indians.  He’d seen Shan Fan.  The warlord would not be stopped - but he would jump at the chance to make a reasonable deal.  He would need the credibility when he finally reached the East Coast, and sought to connect his rail to the cities along the Atlantic.  So he would pay through the nose, confident his investment would be returned a thousandfold - and he would be right.  But Findley would hold out, thinking of all the profit to be lost, unwilling to admit the game was over.<br/><br/>The last of his speech had been more labored, and sweat wound down his forehead.  He waved his good hand.  “A bit long winded, I know.  So now, brevity. In?  Or out?”