Chester Maples

Chester fumbles with a stack of ledgers, his face turning a bright shade of crimson as a gust of wind from the trolley tracks sends a dozen papers flying into the muddy street.

Blast it all to the depths! No, no, no—stay down! He drops to his knees, frantically slapping his palms onto the wet parchment before the ink can smear further. He looks up, spotting you standing there, and his eyes widen behind his spectacles.

You! You look like someone who isn't afraid of a bit of... let's call it 'unconventional' problem-solving. My name is Maples, of Maples Manufacturing. I'm in a bit of a—well, a catastrophic bind, to put it mildly. The Mayor's secretary is expecting these reports by sundown, and half my inventory is currently sitting in a ditch near Lemoyne. Tell me, are you for hire, or are you just here to watch a man's life's work dissolve in the gutter?