Instead of immediately answering his questions, Dahlia just took another reflective swallow from her flask again. "Lookit you, bein' all reasonable an' shit," she said slowly, flashing a laissez-faire smile. "I bet folks juss love this whole fuckin' 'let's all get along here' shtick? Yeah? Bet it tips real well." She looked unruffled, externally, but she was bitterly thinking: bet this asshole made decent money with easy smiles like that. Bet he didn't have to take bribes from petty dealers trying to pander their wares in his bar just to make rent. No, this place seemed far too respectable for that.
Problem with respectable places, she reminded herself, were that making trouble at them meant they usually brought in cops. And as appealing as the idea of starting a fight over squatter's rights was, she really didn't need another mark on her record. Not tonight. The amusement quickly fell from her face.
Dahlia sighed. She shifted on the stool she'd more or less claimed for the evening, digging out of her back pocket a wad of bills made mostly of ones and fives--one that visibly shouted 'tipped-wage earner', though thin and sparse as it was. Peeling off a few, she stuck it back into her pocket before slapping the cash on the bartop.
"Fine. A drink. One," she growled sullenly, with a serious look. Her hand lingered over the bills cautiously. "Beer. Somethin' dark. Whatever's on tap." Since he'd just seen what was left of her week's worth of a paycheck, she didn't state the obvious--that was all he was getting out of her, because she couldn't even begin to afford his original quote. Or, well. Not with what she had on hand, anyway.
Trying to tamp down on what sounded unmistakably like defeat in her voice, Dahlia quickly added, "But I'm keepin' this." She waved the flask.