“Just going to take in a few of the gambling houses in the District, that’s all,” he said. He owned a few of them, the Dragons owned a few more, and still others were legitimately clean all the way through (which was, in his experience, a waste, but not his business). “Try my luck at the roulette tables, maybe -- give those pretending at being card sharks a break, save their dignity.” He grinned at her and added, “Of course, you and I could probably clean out every single person at one of those tables, and I’m not strictly opposed -- as long as it’s not one of my tables -- but I’ll say it’s been awhile since I’ve been kicked out of a casino.” That wasn’t the sort of entertainment he’d been after tonight -- just work, business as usual -- but plans could change.
His train of thought was interrupted by the waiter. He asked for the special, not having bothered with the menu, and waited for her to make her order and the waiter to retreat before he continued: “Stakes are pitiful down there, anyway.” His voice held a fair amount of derision; the laws that kept people from losing their metaphorical shirts were a waste of the paper they were written on, as far as he concerned. If you were going to play, you needed to be able to man up and take a loss.
And while Cian laid out the plans, options, and ideas, Ofelia could see the night unfurling in front of her like an unfinished tapestry, an empty map to be filled in with all sort of promise and potential. It was like waving a platter of mouth-watering meat in front of a worgen, or fluttering red fabric before a slaven, goading them into a strike. He dangled the bait, and the woman consciously snapped it up.
“It has been a while since I’ve been down to the tables,” she mused, “and cleaning someone out does sound like fun. My purse could do with some stretching. And we can walk that line, hm? Win enough to keep them wary and on their toes and your reputation up, but not enough to be blacklisted.”
Striking the right balance to be believable was almost more challenging (and thus more enjoyable) than simply winning. She folded her hands in front of her on the scarred table. It felt almost as if they were doing business – which meant this was one of the first times Fee would have to admit that, yes, business could be mixed with pleasure.
“Sounds like we’ve got a plan for the night, then,” he said. The fact that it didn’t exactly match his initial plan for the evening (or hers, he suspected) hardly made any difference. People in their line of work were good at adjusting on the fly. He knew they’d have to split up eventually, to keep up appearances, but the start of the evening ought to be pretty damn entertaining. “Making a nuisance of myself -- while making a profit -- is my second favorite thing. Guess this makes us temporary partners in… not-exactly-crime.” With a smirk playing across his lips, he reached out his hand to shake, as if to seal a deal. An apt joke, considering the sorts of deals both of them more frequently made.
Fee eyed the proffered hand warily, as if he were holding out a serpent. But after a pause, the woman seemed to thaw, her stiff angles relaxing enough for her to reach out for a shake, sealing the pact.
“Isn’t it customary to spit on our palms for this sort of thing?” she asked, then yanked her hand back just as Cian seemed to gather himself for a go. When she delivered a mock-disgusted “Eugh,” it seemed her old orator’s stripes were showing: more playful, more talkative, less the calculating creature of practicalities she tended to become around the Wildes.
She fell into silence as their piping-hot food arrived, waiting for their waiter to leave. Once he did: “What’s your first favourite thing?”