The rented car weaved through the streets of San Francisco, taking seemingly random turns before finally pulling up at the destination Ivan had specified. The bustling intersection of Taylor Street, a hub of life and energy, buzzed with pedestrians and clanging streetcars.
Ivan stepped out of the car, a small suitcase in hand, and handed a ten-Philippine dollar bill to the silent driver. "Thank you. Keep the change."
The driver nodded curtly, took the bill without a word, and drove off into the thrumming city traffic.
Standing amidst the chaos of Taylor Street, Ivan adjusted his hat and gestured for Charlie to follow him. The two of them entered the Hilty Hotel, a grand establishment in the heart of downtown San Francisco. Its elegant facade of polished stone and ornate carvings spoke of luxury and exclusivity. The lobby inside was no less impressive, with its high ceilings, marble floors, and chandeliers casting a warm glow.
At the counter, Ivan confidently approached the clerk, a poised lady in her early forties. "I'd like to rent a luxury suite," he said, his voice calm and deliberate. "The name is Rocky Balboa."
Her practiced smile didn't falter as she checked her ledger. "Of course, Mr. Balboa," she replied smoothly, sliding over a key with a golden tag attached. "Your suite is on the third floor. Enjoy your stay."
Ivan handed over twenty Philippine dollars without batting an eye and took the key, leading Charlie toward the elevator. Once inside the suite, they both paused for a moment, taking in the lavish surroundings. The spacious suite boasted three bedrooms, a large sitting area adorned with richly patterned rugs, and furniture that gleamed with polish and care. Elegant drapes framed tall windows overlooking the vibrant street below.
"Wow!" Charlie exclaimed, spinning slowly to take in every detail. "I've never even seen a place like this, let alone stayed in one!"
Ivan couldn't help but smirk at the boy's excitement. "You're not alone. This is a first for me too."
He let out a breath, marveling briefly at the sheer effort his facade required. Creating the illusion of "Rocky Balboa," a wealthy businessman from Russia, demanded not just paperwork and backstories but also a presence, a place like this, somewhere tangible that others could associate with the name. The price was steep, but it was a necessary part of his cover.
The real Ivan wouldn't be staying here. The suite wasn't for him; it was for Rocky. As long as there was movement around the suite, Charlie running errands or meeting visitors, the illusion would hold, providing the perfect smokescreen for Ivan's true activities.
Ivan turned to Charlie, who was still admiring the opulent decor. "Alright, here's the plan. You'll be staying here to keep up appearances."
Charlie spun around, his face lighting up. "You mean I get to stay here? For real?"
"Yes," Ivan said with a small grin, "but you're not just staying for fun. You have a job to do. If anyone comes asking for 'Mr. Balboa,' you tell them he's out on business. Got it?"
"Got it!" Charlie gave an exaggerated salute, clearly relishing his new role.
Ivan stepped closer, his tone turning more serious. "And remember, don't say anything you're not supposed to. Keep it simple. If they press you, just repeat what I told you."
"Don't worry, Mr. Balboa," Charlie said, puffing out his chest. "I won't let you down."
Satisfied, Ivan nodded. Then, as an afterthought, he asked, "By the way, won't your family worry about you being gone?"
Charlie shrugged. "I told my dad I was helping out a big-shot businessman. He's fine with it."
Ivan chuckled softly. "Big shot, huh? Alright then."
After changing out of his formal attire and back into his old, worn clothes, Ivan grabbed his hat and prepared to leave. "I'll be out for a while, probably all night. Stay here, keep the act up, and don't do anything foolish."
"Sure thing, boss," Charlie said, plopping down on one of the plush chairs with a grin.
Ivan gave him one last glance, then slipped out of the suite, blending seamlessly into the bustling crowd outside. He walked a few blocks along Taylor Street before hopping onto a streetcar. As the tram rattled and swayed, Ivan leaned back, allowing himself a moment to strategize.
---
The ride gave Ivan time to sift through what he knew about the criminal underworlds of both Oakland and San Francisco.
Ivan replayed what Mr. Hua had shared. The Mexican Family dominated Oakland's shadow economy, dealing in drugs, bootleg liquor, and illicit tobacco. To hold such sway, they almost certainly had a wizard or several, within their ranks. Ivan wondered if Martha had fallen into their hands. Her shapeshifting abilities made her a valuable asset, one they wouldn't give up lightly.
Then there was the enigmatic "Tuner" mentioned by Howard. Was this figure a member of the Mexican Family? A rival? Or perhaps a wild card altogether? Ivan made a mental note to investigate further.
'San Francisco: The Robbins Family and the Metalia Family:'
Here, the criminal scene was divided between two giants: the Robbins Family, a dynasty of old money with deep roots in both legitimate and illegitimate enterprises, and the Metalia Family, known for their aggressive expansion into gambling and entertainment. Both families wielded considerable power, backed by legal businesses as well as hidden magical muscle, likely B-level wizards or higher.
Could either of these families have connections to Martha's disappearance? Or were they merely distractions in his hunt? Ivan couldn't rule anything out yet.
---
The tram came to a stop, and Ivan disembarked, blending into the evening crowd. His mind was a whirlwind of connections, suspicions, and possibilities. The pieces of the puzzle were still scattered, but one thing was clear: to find Martha and navigate the labyrinth of alliances and betrayals, Ivan needed more information, and fast.
At five o'clock sharp, Ivan pushed open the door to the familiar North Beach Police Station. The place was as lifeless as ever. The first floor held only a few civilian clerks, who seemed more interested in their afternoon tea than in policing. The absence of uniformed officers was almost comical. Ivan half-wondered if they'd all slipped away to enjoy the day's happy hour.
Shaking his head, he climbed the stairs to the second floor and stepped into Sheriff Snowden's office. The sheriff sat hunched over his desk, a newspaper spread out in front of him. His reading glasses rested on the tip of his nose, and he looked up only briefly as Ivan entered.
"What brings you back so soon?" Snowden asked, folding the newspaper and leaning back in his chair.
Ivan closed the door behind him and smirked. "I've got some progress to report. Also, I need your help again."
Snowden raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Progress already? You just walked out of here this morning, and there was nothing then."
Without waiting for an invitation, Ivan took a seat. He grabbed the teacup Snowden poured for him, downed the contents in one gulp, and sighed in satisfaction.
"I've been busy," Ivan said. "Now, let's get to it. I need you to do two things for me."
Snowden adjusted his glasses, his expression shifting from curiosity to caution. "Alright, let's hear it."
Ivan leaned forward. "First, I need you to add a name to the customs entry records, Rocky Balboa. Can you do that?"
Snowden frowned thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "Not too difficult. Customs office owes me a favor. I'll need to pull some strings, but it shouldn't be a problem."
"Great," Ivan said, sitting back. "Do it as soon as possible. I need it in place before things move forward."
Snowden scribbled a note in his ledger, then looked up expectantly. "And the second thing?"
Ivan hesitated, as if weighing his words, before finally saying, "I need some drugs."
The sheriff froze mid-note, his pen hovering over the paper. Slowly, he set it down, his eyes narrowing. "Drugs?" he repeated. "Ivan, I hope you're not—"
"Not what?" Ivan interrupted. "You think I'm using?"
Snowden gestured dramatically. "What else am I supposed to think? That stuff'll ruin you. Trust me, I've seen it happen—"
"Relax," Ivan cut in, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm not using. I need them for business."
"Business?" Snowden asked, his voice sharp. He shifted in his chair, one hand slowly inching toward the handcuffs on his belt. "What kind of business are we talking about here?"
Ivan sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Every time we talk, you make me regret opening my mouth. Just hear me out before you jump to conclusions."
Snowden's fingers lingered near the cuffs, but he stayed put, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "I'm listening."
For the next ten minutes, Ivan laid out his plan, explaining his undercover strategy and the intricate web of deception he was weaving. Snowden listened, though his face alternated between disbelief and reluctant admiration.
When Ivan finished, Snowden leaned back and exhaled sharply. "Let me get this straight. You're pretending to be a Western drug dealer, heading into Oakland to strike a deal with their drug lords?"
Ivan nodded. "Exactly. But I need credibility, and that means records showing Rocky Balboa's activity in San Francisco. That's where you come in."
"And the drugs?" Snowden asked, his voice still cautious.
Ivan shrugged. "You think I can walk in empty-handed? If I don't have product to sell, the entire ruse falls apart."
Snowden leaned forward, rubbing his temples. "Ivan, I don't need to tell you this is highly illegal."
Ivan chuckled, his grin sly. "Snowden, we both know the line between legal and illegal in this city is paper-thin. Don't act like your hands are squeaky clean."
The sheriff groaned, muttering something under his breath about regretting the day he met Ivan. "Fine," he said after a moment. "But where exactly do you think I'm supposed to find drugs? This isn't the kind of thing we keep lying around the station."
Ivan smirked, leaning back in his chair. "I wasn't expecting North Beach to have anything. But the Central Police Station? They confiscated a stash two months ago. That's where you'll find what I need."
Snowden raised an eyebrow. "You want me to stroll into Central, knock on their door, and ask for drugs? Are you insane?"
"Not at all," Ivan said smoothly. "Think of it as a redistribution of resources. Those drugs were seized in the name of fighting crime. I'm using them to take down bigger fish. It's all part of the system."
Snowden stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head with a defeated laugh. "You're something else, Ivan."
"So, will you do it?" Ivan asked, his tone pressing.
Snowden sighed again, his shoulders slumping. "I'll see what I can do. But if this backfires, you're taking the fall."
"Fair enough," Ivan said, standing and adjusting his coat. "You know where to find me. And remember; fast results, please."
As Ivan walked out of the office, he caught the faint sound of Snowden muttering, "This guy's going to be the death of me." Ivan grinned. At least the sheriff kept things entertainin