It's the Little T'ings

As the voluptuous woman entered, she had no questions in her dark gaze. Nearly 5'8", and all legs, she strode confidently towards the back if the room. She began plucking objects from the shelf, examining them like a professional appraiser would observe a diamond.

Cut-off jean shorts hugged curved hips, a pair of leather ankle boots making a hollow sound with each step she took. An off the shoulder t-shirt hugged her chest and slim waist, some sort of symbol on the front of it.

Saturday sat behind the counter, where he could be found in the early evening most nights. Tonight, his heels are on the counter (very classy wing-tip shoes with silver tips) and his deep purple suit seems nicer. Velvet maybe? It should be tacky, but he pulls it off nicely. The jacket is open to reveal a lighter purple button shirt with the top three buttons down. The strangely battered top hat sits at an odd angle on his head and a thin, expensive cigar smolders in the corner of his mouth. Large, knowing eyes flit over the new comer nearly the second she walks in. He smiles, nods slowly and settles his gaze squarely on her. Otherwise, he moves not at all, smoke curling from the corner of his lip.

She made no short work of her browsing, but never seemed lost. Rather, each of the several specimens she required she chose carefully, as if it were in better condition it would serve her better - sometimes bringing the current object under her nose for a whiff, or even shutting her eyes as slender finger ran over the object, looking for something unseen.

She approached the counter, then, a good collection of trinkets and ingredients and components laid before him on the counter.

Glancing up at him from under thick, dark lashes, full lips gave a strange crooked smile before they moved with words; words which rolled off her tongue in a heavy Caribbean accent, confident and intense.

"Quite de collection ye'v got." Her approval was apparent over pretty features.

Saturday looks her over slowly, the playful grin tugging at full lips. His heels slide off the counter and are replaced rather promptly with his elbows, forming a nest for his chin on upturned knuckles.

"Why tank you, mon cher. Dis be my shop, an you be welcome any time." He looks over the various collected items on the counter before him for a moment without moving.

"You dun have de look of a tourist here, but dis place clearly ain't ya home eider."

"No," Came the expedient answer, a wad of cash pulled from her pocket. "I go where I be told, an' make de best of eet." She smiled to him, a sensual smile that held malice and sexuality at the same time. "Eet's es little t'ings dat make me comfortable, like dis shoppe." She glanced around the store once, longingly.

"Da little t'ings dat make me feel at home"

Saturday nods, idly starting to punch numbers into the antique register.

"Oh, child, dat smacks of slavery. You'd tink such tings would be behind us." The tone and his body language betrays nothing, but there is a rather keen sense of intensity to his conversation that leads to... something. Hard to define, really.

"Who you work for dat deliver such orders?"

She eyed him up and down, the sort of gaze that might make a lesser man think she was peering straight into his soul. But Saturday knew better.

"'is name be Mr. Paolo Giovanni. 'e treats me right, ye know, as best as can be expected from one of 'is kind.. dese trinkets, 'do, dey be for me. He lets me do my t'ing, don' ask what dey be for."

Saturday nods slowly. Giovanni. Why did it have to be a Giovanni...?

"Interesting. We're not overly fond o' dem here, mon cher. Takes too much energy ta hate em, but der souls be black and hands stained with blood most foul. Pollute de Arts ta someting twisted and wrong. Treat de ancestors like serfs. Bad juju all round, no?"

A pillar of smoke leaves each nostril as his features take on a thoughtful expression.

"I had dealin' wit Ravenna Giovanni in de past. How do she and he get on?"

"Madre 'n Paolo, dey be like mudder and son - known each ot'er a long time.

"I ken'not say I be agreein' wit da t'ings dey be doin' wit de spirits, wit de ancestors, but I been servin' dis family for a long time; more years den I care to coun'. So I'll be servin' dem until I fine' new managemen', or de family forcefully be retirin' me."

Saturday nods, taking a draw on his cigar and gesturing to a stool on the other side of the counter for her to sit.

"How'd you fall in wit dat crowd, cher? Dey be... a select group. Dun usually take from de more colorful sections o de world."

"Save for when dey do." She responded in a sultry sort of way. "I be a Ghiberti - dey be de more 'colorful' of de family." She slipped onto the stool and gave a cool smile. "What is eet dat brings you to dis part of de woods?"

Saturday shrugs lightly, starting to put items in a bag.

"Good a place as any. De controlin' interests o de city tink favorably o me. An I got a unique skill set fer de area."

He takes another puff off his cigar.

"How long you been in town, cher?"

"T'ree days, now." She responded nonchalantly, watching with mild interest as the tendrils of smoke reached towards the ceiling. "An' ye?"

"Off an on fer a long time, cher. But I ain't called dis city home fer more den a few month."

He taps the ash into a colorful bone ashtray.

"Tell me some ting of yerself, mon cher. Tell me some ting you want."

She gave a thin little smile, her head tilting to one side slightly.

"Somet'ing I want, mm?" A pause as she thought about it, "Knowledge - de ability to speak wit' de dead. De ability to speak wit' forces not of dis world."

Saturday nods slowly.

"You tink yet current employers teach des tings?"

Discontent flashed through her dark eyes, a slight purse of her lips given before her features relaxed back to normal.

"No, 'e was close to teachin' me, but den she came along. De little princess, de sister of de master. A scrawny little waif, buryin' her nose in a book, den wastin' de knowledge, never be usin' it. Now he be teachin' her, not me. Be payin' attention to her, not me."

Saturday raises the cigar to his lips and draws slowly.

"Ya dun sound terribly happy bout dat, mon cher. Terrible ting ta be denied ones heritage. Could be I know de tings you want ta learn."

He settles back, watching her closer. "Dat surprise you?"

As he settled back she leaned forward against the counter, keeping the distance between them the same as she gave a coy little smile.

"You strike me as de sort of man who I should not be surprised by, no matter what you know.. I would not assume ta even t'ink ta guess what sort of t'ings you be knowin'."

He returns her small smile and tips his hat.

"De lady is wise. So,"He blows a ring of smoke. "Guess de next question be where dat put us?"

A brow rose as she rested her chin on her hands, mimicking what Saturday had done just moments before. "You would be willin' ta teach me, den? De real question be.. what would you want for such a precious t'ing?"

"Well, its criminal ta keep ya heritage away from ya. But... I got a powerful mistrust o Giovanni. Now... you work fer me, dat an udder matter entirely. "

A knowing smirk crossed her full lips as she ran a fingertip across the counter top. "I see what you be aimin' fer, sir.. for such t'ings? I am willing to speak wit you on dis.. but some questions, firs', if I ken.

"For starters, if you don' min' me askin'.. what's your name?"

Saturday smiles and nods, sweeping his hat off.

"De call me Saturday. Samuel Saturday. And you, mon cher?"

An amused little smirk came over her lips as she shook her head a bit, "Efua Ghiberti.."

A little chuckle was given, "Everyone just calls me Friday, though."