Westside Pawn Shop

"Antique rangefinder? I'm trying to think of something that'd be more worthless."

Well this was going well.

Miguel however seemed to press in the attack and continued. "Maybe an antique horoscope. Or an antique sandwich. I'll tell you something. Good luck finding that thing. But if you do find it, don't waste your time trying to sell it to me."

I glowered at him, "Didn't I offer to pay you 500 caps for a Poseidon rangefinder?"

He looked at me like I was stupid. "No."

And then it hit me, "Ah shit, it was your grandfather I offered." I hit the counter lightly with my fist.

"Wait, how long ago was this?" He was curious. He was close to the old man. It's why he took over the shop after the old man was killed by Fiends.

"It was…76. Forget about it." I tried not to let the memory get me down; you'd think after all this time I'd be used to watching people die. So I sighed and tried not to look depressed.

"You've been after a rangefinder for five years? What for?"

"Spare parts."

"Don't give me that Miller" he snapped. "I know damn well that there's nothing in a rangefinder you can't get in new chit sets from NCR."

I put up my index finger to make a point "That's where you're wrong Miguel. A range finder had just the electronics I need for to build an external automapper. I got a hunch if I take the rangefinder off of an old Mark 2 combat helmet, retrofit with a pre-war artillery rangefinder, my automap feature would be able to, at least, map out up to a dozen meters in any direction simultaneously. We're talking low level seismology here. It would make my invaluable in scouting new routes through the mountains. To say nothing of safely navigating caves."

That was a whooper, but Miguel seemed to buy it. He stroked is dark goatee thoughtfully, "Huh, I never thought about that before. I don't think it will work, but it might be worth a shot. Tell you what, I will keep an eye out for any rangefinders, just for you. But I want my grandfather's deal: 500 in caps. No large bills, no NCR."

"What about a bag full of 500 1 caps?"

"Don't be a smartass, but it would be better than NCR money."

I extended my hand, "Deal." He shook.

"Now, onto other business. Do you have any goodies for me?"

"Not this time, I'm afraid. I got some interesting weapons on pawn, but they haven't defaulted yet. But you will get first pick if they do."

"No fission batteries? No robot casings? Nothing?"

"Nope. Nada."

"Ah, shit, this was a waste of time. I'll see you around Miguel."

The little bell went off as I exited the store, Veronica following close behind.

"Well, that's one down," said Veronica.

"And one more to go," I walked forward, but looked behind me at Veronica, or rather Veronica's hood. It's not like there was much to look at in Westside. House walled up the interesting parts of Vegas, even if he doesn't take care of Freemont Street. Out west, here where Las Vegas ends and the desert begins, there's nothing but ordinary pre-war buildings, much like anywhere else. They're drab, they're old, but designed to resist fire and corrosion so they're still serviceable with some work with a little retrofitting. Still, Westside isn't a pretty place, and I can tell from the architecture that the neighborhood was just above a slum even pre-war.

I stopped on the sidewalk, not sure what I was thinking. Then it hit me, "Hey Veronica."

"That's my name don't wear it out."

I turned to face her. "You want to see the Followers of the Apocalypse in action?"

"Well, geez, you drag me out here to ass end of nowhere. I might as well see the sights."

"Come."

Down a few blocks we came to the Casa Madrid, a squat gray three story flophouse. We walked through the double doors into the foyer. It was….clean by post war standards, which is to say it was hot, it didn't stink of sweat or mold, and the hundred year old carpet only crunched a little under feet. From the front entrance it was a straight shot up the stairs, and by the stairs, leaning on the wall, was Pretty Sarah. Just the person I wanted to see.

I waved to her "How you doing Sarah?"

She smiled humorlessly at me, "You're not going to sell out that scawny ass behind you are you? I'm not hiring new girls - all slots filled, you could say - and my arrangements with Marco are exclusive."

I looked at Veronica, who was absolutely scandalized. Really, that look of horror and disgust was priceless.

"I'm not a whore, you ugly bitch!" snapped Veronica, indignantly.

Sarah smirked at Veronica and said, "I could guess that from the potato sack you're wearing, you never know with Theresa…"

I said, "Goddamnit Sarah, stop making that joke every time I bring in a female friend. It's not funny."

Sarah chuckled a bit, a chuckle that was devious and low. Then she composed herself, "Then there's no problem here - and no need to get nasty. So are you here to see Sweetie?"

"No. Not a booty call. I want to know if Tom Anderson is here. By the way, this is Veronica, and I want to introduce her to the Followers of the Apocalypse. Figured Tom could give her a tour. You know, show her the good the Followers do."

"I see. Well I ain't seen him leave his room all day, so who knows? You might catch him."

"Thanks, Sarah. Come along Veronica."

Veronica still looked upset at Sarah, but she moved up the stairs at a reasonable pace, all the while staring at her. Wen we turned the corner of the landing Sarah waved at us both. That was funny and I had to chuckle.

"What the hell is wrong with her?" snapped Veronica as we headed up to the second floor.

"We're going up. Tom's on the third floor."

"Who the hell does she think she is? And what the hell is wrong with her face?"

"Walls are thin, keep moving."

And we kept moving until we were on the third floor and out of the stairwell. But then I answered, "She's a pimp. It means she has to guard her turf against freelancers."

"Yeah, but that doesn't give her the right—"

"Come off it Veronica, she didn't mean anything by it."

"And what's wrong with her face? She looks kinda like a ghoul. But with a nose, of course."

I stopped and turned to her. "I'll tell you if you don't talk about her anymore. Cause it's something she's real sensitive about."

Veronica rolled her eyes at me, but sighed, "Fine, what is it?"

"Ever heard of Cook-Cook?"

Veronica shook her head. "No. Should I?"

"Well, Cook-Cook is why you REALLY don't want to go into Fiend territory. He's the…resident chef for the Fiends. I've heard he stinks to high hell, but that's all hearsay. Truth is, he captured Sarah in a raid a few years back by McCarran and had his way with her in every way imaginable. It went on for days. Then he cut her lose and tried to fry her up with his flamethrower, mostly for kicks as much as anyone can figure. It's how he signs his work. "

"Uh," said Veronica, her mouth open, barring the front upper teeth alone in an expression of disgust. "How, how did she survive a flamethrower?"

"You want to know how? Because Cook-Cook doesn't use flame to kill. He uses it to main. He wants his victims to die slowly, so all she got was a light dousing. In some ways it could have been worse: fire can melt people's faces off. They look worse than ghouls. Skin melts over the eyes and mouth so it has to be cut open so they can eat again. So she kinda got off lucky….not that I would ever say that to her face."

"Hmm," Veronica thought about this, "I think this is someone I want to kill."

"Don't even think about it. Cook-Cook lives deep in Fiend country. I don't know if he ever leaves Vault 30 anymore. I sure the fuck don't want to find out."

"What about with that space laser?"

I wiggled my head. I wanted to hedge my bets. "Then…maybe. It'd be a great thing to smite the Fiends with the finger of God." I took the thumb in my right hand and pressed it into my left palm, "Squish."

I feel kind of guilty. I COULD spend all my time killing Fiends. That's A. But B. It's extremely dangerous and C. I'm not getting paid to do so. D. I killed quite a few Fiend leaders when I worked for Randall and Associates and all they did was expand their territory. And now they have a Vault under their control, and I feel vaguely responsible because sometimes I feel like I'm the only competent person in the Mojave Desert, and only I personally can stop every fuckup imaginable. It certainly feels like that some days.

"What's wrong?" Veronica asked me.

"What?"

"You've been staring off in space."

I decided to humor her, so I offered to explain, "You want me to be honest?"

"Ummm, I asked you."

I sniffed in the hot stale air through the nostrils, I almost sneezed because of the dust in the building, but I held it together. "I've been playing Courier for 25 years, and I swear, I feel like I'm the only person who ever actually fixes things. Everyone else treads water or sits pretty on their asses and don't do a damn thing to help people. Year after year, everyone else just treads water."

"Well, don't the Followers do anything?"

I growled, "Yes, kinda. But they can only do so much. I was thinking about NCR. World class fuckups. Ceasar's Fucking Legion makes them look bad by comparison." I shook in rage at the thought of saying that. It was worse now that I'd said it. I hated that I said it. And I shook in the coldness that came. It was half shame.

"How could they make NCR look that bad?"

I wanted to stamp my feet into the ground, and I gripped my palms. "Veronica, what do you know about Caesar's Legion?"

"Silliest dressed band of raping, slaving marauders you'll see east of California, I'll say that. Where's that touch of Old World class? Although I hear the soldiers mount each other as much as they mount their women, so maybe they did keep a little something from the Empire. No such privilege for the women, though. Figures. So... to answer your question... they're a bunch of hypocritical jerkwads."

I looked in her eyes, deep chocolate brown. And I smirked at her.

"It's a word."

"That's…that's not why I'm smiling."

"Oh really? So what is it?"

"Well, if you were to get across the Colorado in one piece, you could walk naked out east to the Texas Panhandle and not be accosted once. There are no Fiends in Legion territory. Fuckers like that go up on a cross. If Caesar were to conquer the Mojave, in six months you wouldn't find a raider in the Las Vegas valley. Period."

"Yeah, and half of Vegas would be enslaved. Mostly the female half."

I wobbled my head, thinking on whether that was true. "Not necessarily. The Legion leaves the towns alone. They have to tear down their walls, they have to pay taxes, but with no bandits on the road, they're usually making money head over fist so they do better off with the Legion than before the Legion. Flagstaff is undergoing a genuine renaissance. I've been there, I've seen it. The Legion repairs the roads, builds new buildings, all Roman style. The Basilicas in particular are breathtaking."

"Basillicas?"

"Think Cathedrals, but used for administration. A court and town hall all in one. Made out of Roman concrete, basically designed to last forever. They really class up a neighborhood, especially when they encourage people to tear down that awful pre-fab shit from the pre-war. Ech, Midcentury Modern is a HORRIBLE design aesthetic. Scratch that. ALL Modernism is a horrible, soulless, bland-"

"I get it, I get it! You don't pre-war buildings."

"The nukes improved the landscapes of many, many cities in America. Wait, wait, I didn't mean that. In fact, just forget it."

Honestly, I would have enjoyed talking with someone about architecture. Been a long, long time. Frankly I have yet to not be disappointed in post war builders. They want cheap shacks instead of well built, comfortable things. Craftsmanship just isn't appreciated. Or there. Even Vault Cities are completely without class or ambition.

So we walked around until we came to Tom Anderson's faded red door. I knocked, politely, saying "Hello Tom? It's Theresa Miller. I got someone here I want you to meet!"

I heard footsteps coming towards us, followed by the starching of a deadbolt unlatching from the wall.

"I always have time for a fellow Follower."

I looked at Veronica because I had to explaining to do, "I'm only technically a Follower. I kept giving Julie Farkas drugs until she asked me to join."

"Really?" asked Veronica.

"Donating medicine for our mission in Freeside is not the same as pushing drugs, Theresa," said Tom in his slow, mild way. I'd seen Tom get angry, but I'd never seen him shout. It just wasn't his way.

I shrugged, "Ah same difference."

Tom turned to Veronica, sticking out his hand "Tom Anderson, Can I help you?"

She took his hand gingerly. "Veronica Santangelo. I'm interested in hearing about what you do here in Westside."

"Well, I can spare a few minutes at least."

"I was hoping you could give her the tour," I said.

"Well, come and sit down, we'll discuss it. Come on, sit," he motioned to an old light green couch. I sat on the left side, Veronica sat on the right. I could smell her oils. Long ago I'd gone nose blind to sweat but smelling people's oils always drove me nuts. The nice thing about being on a motorcycle is the air constantly vents. Here, it was more noticeable.

Tom had gone to the kitchen and returned with two beers and a bottle opener. He offered, and both of us took the bottles. Etiquette in these cases is never to ask, but I really, really hoped it wasn't pre-war beer that was just dug up two or three weeks ago. I still give a shit about drinking bad beer, which is something of a wasteland luxury. And no, that fact that the beer in my hand was ice cold would be of no issue if it tasted putrid going down. Still I titled the bottle forward and with the opener, Tom yanked it off. He did the same for Veronica's and then took our caps back to the kitchen area. That's the wonderful thing about old beer. It sells for 2 caps, and when you open it up, you get one back.

We heard a pop from the kitchen and Tom returned with a beer in his hand. He sat on an Ottoman that was so threadbare I could see padding exposed.

I drank the stuff down, and found that, for beer, it was actually passable. Not high grade beer, in fact it was post-war beer, which is so watered down the alcohol is there just to sterilize the water. I nodded and put my beer up like it was a toast, to show Anderson it was fit for consumption. Veronica did likewise. I wondered whether they did the same thing in the Brotherhood of Steel, or if she'd learned it out in the wasteland. I could always ask her later.

Tom looked pleased, and we all took turns sipping our drinks for five or six minutes. Finally he said, "So what do you want to know Ms. Santangelo?"

"I want to see how groups have adapted out here in the Wasteland. See if there's anything I can learn."

Tom nodded and said "Well, yes. The Followers know many things, and we try to spread that knowledge to the people as best we can."

"Yeah, I've heard that before. I know a guy at the 188. No my question is, what do YOU do?"

"I help the locals in Westside grow crops. Unlike the NCR, the Followers don't expect anything back."

"Huh, is there a problem with the NCR?"

Tom scowled, his tanned forehead crinkling up. "I don't go looking for fights with them, but they don't have the best interests of people in mind. Certainly not locals." That was Tom's way. He hated the NCR but didn't want to let on how much he hated them. But it was all in his face. "The bottom line for NCR is productivity and growth. Politicians back in Shady Sands are completely detached from the people actually living here."

I breathed in, not wanting to start a fight. The NCR did care, they cared a lot. They just…well their occupation was utterly incompetent. Tom was the type to see malice where there was none. It was why he was out here in Westside rather than at Old Mormon Fort. I knew that, I knew his reputation, but Veronica didn't.

I said, "I was hoping you could give her a tour of the co-op. The gardens, show her exactly how the gardens work. Keep her busy for a few hours."

"Why can't you show her the co-op?" Tom asked me. "You know its operations almost as well as I do."

"Because you know better….Veronica? You know he's no fan of the NCR-"

Veronica smirked, "Mr. Anderson, I'm a Scribe in the Brotherhood of Steel. Theresa just met me and thinks I'd be a much better fit for the Followers."

I took a long drink. I remember before the war, where casually revealing any kind of secret would get your ass tracked and ported by the NSA. I knew the pre-war US was a police state, but it was only moments like this where it really hit me how unfree we were. It made me uneasy to think of NCR and how they were trying to rebuild the US. I didn't want that 'National Security State' back. Every phone call, every email, every conversation in the park, monitored and logged for public safety.

Naturally, I was in this line of thought so deep I didn't hear Tom's response. Not entirely. It was something about how much Veronica's knowledge could help the people.

I let the conversation continue as a drained my beer. There was a lot of chit chat about if Veronica could comment on how the machinery could work,, if she'd be willing to look at some of it and tell him about improvements. None of it is worth recording in detail, but it was important minutia if you want to get the infrastructure done right.

I drained my beer and said "So Tom, you think you could give her the tour?"

"Yes, Theresa, I'd be happy to show her what we've been able to do here. Are you coming too?"

"Uh, no. I've got a job from Primm. I need to do some flatfooting while I'm here."

"A little flatfooting?" asked Tom, "A little flatfooting can take hours."

I shrugged "Shouldn't take too long. I won't take more than three hours. Can we meet up at the Co-op Store?"

"I suppose we can do that," said Tom.

I nodded, put my beer on his worn coffee table and left.

Outside, I made my way towards the Pawn Shop, although I wasn't going there. I needed to find someone. The militia was always busy keeping Fiends at bay but they kept tabs on other things too. After some minutes I rounded a corner and saw Judah Krieger playing chess with someone I didn't know.

Judah, an older, light skinned black man with a white mustache was one of the leaders of Westside. All unofficially, but he knew things. Things I needed to know. So I watched his game. He was playing white and frankly, there weren't a lot of pieces of his left on the board. Still neither one of them seemed to notice me. I lightly shook Judah's shoulder, and he grunted kinda like he'd been awakened from a dream.

"Hello," I told him.

"Oh Theresa!" He loudly scoot his chair back away from the table supporting the chessboard, and reached down, putting a faded red ball cap over what I thought was rather luxuriant white hair for an older man. "It's OK, Phillip. I wasn't going to win this round anyway…Just clean up for me, and victory's yours."

This man, Phillip, smiled and began by pilling up the pieces with arms. Judah motioned to an alleyway. I thought I was going to get information from him, but apparently he wanted to see me as well.

We weren't very far in the back of the building when Judah said, "Well Theresa, how're you holding up?"

I titled my hat up, exposing the large grey bandage Doc Mitchell had wound around my head.

"What happened?"

"I got robbed."

"And they hit you over the head?"

I looked him less than pitiably. "I got shot outside Goodsprings. Twice. They even dug a shallow grave for me. But I'm a tough old Ghoul."

Judah had gentle eyes, oh so gentle. "Good lord! H-how?"

"What do you mean how?"

"Oh don't give me that Theresa! I know you, I've seen you kill. I saw you take off for the east coast and saunter on back like it's nothing. How did you get ambushed?"

I sighed, "Chest high rope over the Goodsprings Bypass. Knocked me right off my hoverbike. Fucked the bike up too. They knew, somehow, I was on a bike AND knew I was headed through Cazador country to the 160."

"So, then I take it you're not up for adventuring?"

My shoulders slumped "Judah, is it important? I'm in the middle of some really delicate shit. So if it can wait a few weeks…"

"I need you to talk to the Anson boy."

I'd never heard the name before. "Anson who?"

"His name's Eric Anson, he's a local boy. His brother goes up into the mountains every other week, comes back with hides and meat. And he's four days overdue."

"Why are you asking me to do this?" I knew exactly why, but it was connected to my follow up, "this brother of his is probably fine or dead, with no middle ground."

"Just talk to the boy."

And we found Anson soon enough, hanging by the main plot that had been cleared for gardening. The boy couldn't have been more than 15, the hair on his face coming in in patches. Gave me the traditional sob story about this being the only family he had left, and he's so scared and no one was willing to go look for his older brother and the two friends he brought along with him on this trip.

Now, the way I figure it, I'm retired, I've been retired long before the bombs fell, so everything is gravy for me at this point. I won't normally give you any sob story about how I don't want to get involved. I LIKE being involved, I like danger, and to a degree, I don't care if I die. I lived a long, well lived life and when it's time for me to go I go. This time was different.

Call me an ass all you want, but going off on some rescue mission I was getting maybe a 100 caps for, while I'm looking for a kill sat's rangefinder AND the platinum chip that's probably going to decide who's going to win the Mojave? I was annoyed. I was really, really annoyed.

Because ultimately, the charity rescue couldn't wait. So I threw a hissy fit, which I don't want to describe in detail, but I did.

After I composed myself I said "I will look for your brother." I concluded, "However I have some business I have to take care of in Freeside. It cannot wait. The best I can promise you is that I will head up into the mountains tomorrow."

"Are you sure?" asked the boy. He sounded ashamed to ask it, but I didn't hold it against him.

Judah put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Now Eric, It's not right to ask someone to head out into the night in any case. Tomorrow it will have to be."

"Thank you miss," said the boy softly.

"I'll find him kid." I extended my hand, and we shook on it. A promise is a promise. Unless of course it becomes too burdensome and then, what are you going to do?

I told the kid to take off. Then I put my hand around Judah's shoulder and began walking, forcing him to walk with me, "Since I just did you this huge favor, can I get your help on something?"

"I'll do what I can."

"Ah, well, first of all, you know any caches? Enclave, pre-war, places I can loot?"

"Theresa, I've been a trader a long time. I don't know anything about prospecting."

"Say what you mean Judah, it's scavenging. No shame in it."

"I was trying to be polite."

"Well, no harm in asking. I need you help with another matter."

"Can I actually help this time?"

"Well, you know most everyone in Westside?"

"I'm looking for some thieves."

"I'm intrigued. What'd they steal?"

"You know the Vikki and Vance Casino?"

Judah stopped and shook off my arm. "The one in Primm?"

"The very same. Someone knocked off the casino memorabilia. Vance's hat, Vikki's bonnant and a mint condition Suomi KP31."

"A what?"

"It's a Finnish submachine gun from before World War II. Lord knows why the ahem, bloodthirsty, Vance bought a Finnish import rather than a Thomson is beyond me, but it fires 9mm like those grease gun knockoff the Gun Runners sell."

"So you're looking for a well-dressed thief?"

"I'm looking for two of them. A female named Pauline and a male named Sam. Pauline is capable of hacking bots, and they might be a couple. They're hear in Westside somewhere. And they have a safe."

"Hmm, sounds like Sammy and Pauline Winn."

"Well-he-hell, it's a small world after all. What are they like?"

"Idiots."

"That's it? Nothing else to go on?"

Judah thought about it. "They like to think they're big time. They're just hustlers though. Never help out with the crops. They live outside the gate."

I held up the PipBoy on my arm. "Look what I got."

"I saw. Where'd you get it?"

"Got it on loan from Doc Mitchell in Goodsprings. Apparently he's from Vault 21 and seeing how I survived getting shot in the head, he loaned this to me. That said, can you mark my local map?" I was about to pop up the map feature when Judah grabbed my arm so very gently and pulled it down.

"Why don't I come with you?"

"Could get violent," I said.

He laughed, "Not with those two. But I think it'll be pretty entertaining. Just let me get my scattergun just in case and we can be off."

As it was good to have company, and I still had a good two hours of flatfooting before I had to pick up Veronica, I agreed. So I waited by the west gate for 10 minutes and Judah showed up, no body armor, and with a sawed off pump, probably a 12 gauge. He told me not to bother with the bike, would be too short a walk to matter.