Frankie smiled. He liked when people were direct; it could get tiresome to deal with guys looking to shift their dear old granny's jewels, sweating so badly he could smell the vodka rolling out of their pores, or the ones who would stand there, shifty-eyed, insisting they get full price for outmoded iPhones with cracked screens they'd lifted off of drunk tourists.
"I could do with some coolin' off," Frankie said breezily, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. He glanced down at the pavement and scuffed the heel of his sneaker against the curb. "'Course, need to know how hot is it first, and quality. Can't exactly pop in an eyepiece out here."
He paused, considered the girl, then pulled a hand out of his pocket to offer her in greeting.