Sonrisa, log: Dietre A & Cris M
Cris hadn't been lying when he said he'd be the guy at the counter, looking latino. He was latino. He looked it. Cubans, and everybody else 'course, came in all different shapes and sizes, but when some gringo thoughta somebody Spanish, they thoughta somebody like Cris. He was 'bout six feet, built thick and well-muscled, and he had that pretty Latin lover stereotype thing going on. Least a whole lotta gringas thought so. He used it to his advantage when he needed to. Though he didn't, here. Good smile, black hair, dark eyes, dark skin. He had on a gray sweater under a real old leather coat, and he had on jeans, 'cause Cris had never been the kinda guy to care 'bout anya that shit. His hair was finger-brushed and he had a lil bitta shadow going on, but since he wasn't a cop no more, that didn't matter.—He looked up when the bell above the front door jingled, and he watched the kid he'd never seen before (prolly rich, the clothes told him) wandered into the depthsa the store.
Now Repose was small, huh? Real small. Least to somebody who'd grown up in Brooklyn. And Cris had a real good eye for faces. He knew who he knew and he knew who came into the shop. Putting two and two together was easy. Pale, rich-looking, young, avoidant. Prolly that kid Dietre. Now, it could be somebody else, he wouldn't go yelling out to the kid or nothing, but he made a note to himself, then went back to the stock sheet he was writing notes on. Tedito, who usually accompanied him, was in the Capital with the girls, so the lil place felt quieter than usual. Quieter than the quieter it'd become without Joey running 'round. Cris was just thinking 'bout going to find some music to listen to, when the kid who'd come in, finally washed back his way like a lost buoy.
If this kid—Dietre—was distant and cool, Cris was the opposite. He was immediate, in all things, and everything 'bout him spokea warmth. He smiled real nice, brows lifting in a 'can I help you?' kinda way, then he gave a nod. Now, Cris talked just like he wrote, huh? There was no mistaking him once he opened his mouth to reveal slanted vowels and words couched close, with the ends snipped off for speed. "Who you lookin' to buy for?" He tucked the scrappa paper he was writing on outta the way, beneath a paint pot he hadn't returned to where it belonged, and he leaned his long form forward, onto his elbows on the counter. "Whadda they like?" He gave a lil wave. "'Sides from art, obviously. I mean, specific."