Re: [Strip club: Nel & Eames]
Eames made a habit of never apologizing about anything. As habits went, it had its practical uses and it was one of very few he kept unadulterated. There were a few ...quirks, shall we say, that translated no matter where Eames was or who he was at a particular point in time. Apologizing was messy. And Eames, in his vintage shirt and his tailored blazer looked like the kind of man who might abhor a mess. Funny, really.
But the girls, the tits. There were a variety and Eames committed to memory the various shapes and weights, the tilted nipples on one girl bathed in blue and red shadow, depth that wasn't there in naked daylight. Eames knew a little about genuine forgery: it was better to start with something halfway to real to fill in the gaps, rather than start from nothing.
Eames noticed the camera first, because it was resting on the counter and it gleamed and because it was roughly the same size as any other metal object that shone dully in a bar that might be somewhat more lethal when it fired. Which made him a twitchy bastard but that was rather the point of the beer and the sensation of being hidden in plain sight.
He looked at the owner. Who might have been the sort to carry a gun after all, given that she looked vaguely deadly, even wearing an excellent paisley scarf. But Eames didn't suspect the company of hiding, they were rather boringly predictable. Tailoring, the sort of two piece suit and hovering on the cusp of middle age and who looked middle-management who appeared unthreatening, not women with angular androgyny who looked as if they might be.
He followed her line of vision to identify the girl, whichever girl the camera was for. There was a blonde, and for Eames' faults, he had a weakness for constructs who looked like that.