It's a bit of a mission to get to the Tallow residence; Evelyn figures that there's little sense in continuing to live in the Big Smoke if you've got the money to move out. Not that living in a 'respectable' neighbourhood means you're safe, of course - the dead are everywhere, and she's pretty sure some of them are neighbours as well as enemies now – but it's just nicer, and Evelyn likes nice things.
Her office, for example, is very 'nice'; a large chamber, bright and airy with far more windows than logic dictates should look in on a room where less-than-legal dealings take place. It's a room for a lawyer, or a minor movie exec. Not for a gun runner.
Evelyn herself looks small behind the desk, as if it's been made for someone else's proportions, someone bigger and broader and decidedly more male. She's trim, petite, and doesn't do much to disguise that she's on the autumn side of the years because nature's already given her a pretty decent hand in that regard. She wears a lot of black, and a pendant tucked inside her top between her breasts so only the cord is visible – an odd cord, as if it's braided from something (maybe hair?) It's probably better not to ask. There's a lot of things one learns quickly not to ask about where she's concerned; seasoned customers tend to do it without thinking, because she doesn't like giving straight answers.
Anyway. This is just a normal day, and so she's sat behind the enormous desk, chatting away in what might be russian with whoever is on the other end of the phone, engrossed both in the conversation and the meticulous notes she's taking.