<div class="floatright">(http://i.imgur.com/mDV66ep.jpg)</div><strong>Character:</strong>Oscar Valdez<br/><strong>Location/Time:</strong>Around 1230 Hundred Hours.  63 Wall Street, New York, New York.  Penthouse. Exterior.<br/><strong>Attire:</strong>Blue-grey<del>business jacket and</del>slacks.  White dress shirt, sleeves rolled up Black shoes.  Black sunglasses.<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Stephanie Kane<br/><br/><hr/><br/>There were a few two ways of looking at the night to come.<br/><br/>He could going to be killed, or arrested, after having one last chance at making his Mama's sauce.  A thought that was oddly reassuring, in a sense.  How he had wanted to cook in his little cell, how he craved to have one last taste of the old family recipe, had plagued him in his incarceration.  At least he knew what could happen, what dangers and hazards were waiting.  Before, he did not have such a chance to enjoy his freedom, to do the things he wanted to do, before being taken in.  There was no better way to enjoy his last remaining hours of freedom than by cooking.<br/><br/>Well...  There were a few ways which might have been quite appealing, he thought with a reminiscing of a certain club that lay a few blocks away from the Penthouse...<br/><br/>But if he wasn't going to get shot or killed by these weirdos, if he was going to make it out alive and free (or as free as one could get), then he had a big pot of sauce to kill in gluttonous revelry.<br/><br/>When it came to his cooking, it took time, care, and a certain sense of love and dedication.  It wasn't unlike his line of work, he thought often when cooking.  Out in the “field”, it took time, patience to find the right opportunity, the right moment, to strike.  Sometimes it could be days, weeks, even months.  It took patience to make everything perfect, patience that came from handling the operation with care, that came with dedication to making sure the mission was done, and done correctly.<br/><br/>It was what set him apart from low-level hitters and gang bangers.  He took his time in waiting for his target.  He took his patience in waiting and lining up the perfect shot.  He didn't go in guns blazing, pow-pow-pow, bang-bang-bang,, etc.  He invested himself in the operation, wanting it to be perfect, wanting it to be precise and undeniably beautiful in it's own way.  It wasn't just about the paycheck.  It was about making art.<br/><br/>Very much like the pot of sauce that was brewing in it's aromatic goodness.<br/><br/>He had slipped out of the Penthouse for a few minutes, had wandered down to a news stand nearby.  A few celebrity gossip magazines, a moderate collection of snacks and candy, and a bottle of Pepsi were in his hands.  He was starting towards the exterior entrance of the Penthouse building,his hand upon the handle of the door, when his eyes were snagged by the sight of the somewhat familiar individual making her way to the door.<br/><br/>“Well if it ain't Miss Sweet-as-a-Sugar Kane.” He greeted with a grin, opening the door to the building with one arm for her.  “Pick me up any cool books to read?”