Meanwhile, back on the street…
Jacob Raus, the only Jewish business owner to actually profit from Krystalnacht in 1938 (don't ask), who cut a deal with the dybbuk which attached itself to him in his favor, and who betrayed his own family for a profit to the Nazis not long after that deal (again, don't ask), was pleased as he ended the cell phone call to his employer's research department.
Highly pleased.
In Jacob's many decades for Wolfrum and Hart, opportunities to rid himself of an unprofitable situation while pocketing the difference, came rarely.
But thanks to a series of unfortunate but highly entertaining incidents in the late 1980s/early 1990s, the Freddy Fazbear's Pizza chain was hemorrhaging money –and Raus's masters, normally tolerant as long as bloodshed and cash balanced out, with favor in the direction of cash, were losing patience.
Fast.
Hiring that ahtslahn, that un-kosher bum, that lilim, the vampire who was trying to break in through the back loading dock to be a security guard and then LOCKING him in the building was a stroke of pure genius. Having his hunch confirmed by Wolfrum and Hart's research department that it was William the Bloody, merely sweetened Jacob's satisfaction at solving the problem of negative cash flow for his masters. Though unaccountably silent since Budapest, the nasty little turd, the mishugena, the shaygets, had a well-earned reputation for indiscriminate destruction, even for a blood rat. With some discreet cooking of the books, the settlement terms of the soon-to-expire insurance policies covering this inconvenient financial drain for the next five nights, William the Bloody's gleefully anticipated random destruction would be quite profitable for Wolfrum and Hart AND Jacob Raus once William the Bloody did what William the Bloody did best, even as Wolfrum and Hart finally cut their losses by shutting down their ill-advised venture into children's entertainment.
NOT that disasters weren't already profitable for an old hand like Jacob: his masters had yet to notice that every time a business venture he was assigned to went belly up, be it an unexpected F-5 tornado in southwestern Missouri or an anticipated economic collapse in Venezuela, near microscopic amounts of cash always disappeared without a trace into various global accounts under various names as administered by Jacob on company time.
As with sand, one grain at a time, a desert can overtake a field, Jacob's long, patient accumulation of wealth at his employer's expense was slow, steady, and… profitable. And as far as Jacob and his dybbuk, the possessing spirit that kept him an easily overlooked un-aging cog in a vast global machine since 1938, were concerned, slow and steady was all right by them.
Satisfied, the slow-motion macher and momzer, Jacob and his ghostly business partner-in-crime, started his well-cared for 1980s BMW sedan and chuckling, drove into the night towards L.A., anticipating flames on the horizon behind him before sunrise, thanks to his suggestion that the part owner of the business about to be closed down, pay the mishugena, the troublemaker on one of the missing night guard's timecards to bypass his inexplicable (to Mr. Henry) lack of a social security number or even a driver's license.
For the sake of keeping things legal and tidy.