Re: Bar Log: Penny and Cris
Cris could string along a suspect and assorted witnesses, people who didn't know him, who he needed something from, with the best of them. Charming smile, a little sweet talk, abuelitas would tell him anything he needed to know. A hand pinned painfully back to stud of spine and a snarl like he meant it (not so much a lie, that part), and he could get a guy talking. But someone who knew him could read him better. He could play things closer, less obvious, sometimes with some people, even those who were close to him, but not with Penny. They'd worked together too close and too long. He was as good as that Igloo book he'd gotten Teresita, big print, lotsa pictures, everything plain, and her, reading comprehension outta the park.—That worked both ways, though, and he could see through the play of pretty lashes and that smirk that wasn't as innocent as she thought, and he laughed.
"Yeah? What're the odds?" He reached forward, across the table and around drinks, to try to peel her palm back and get at the dime (and the truth!). But, he knew she'd get it outta his reach fast, so he stopped after he had her thumb and he threw her a grin with the same obscene innocence she tried on him, and he pushed outta the booth and trucked to the bar.
It didn't take him long, and he was back—thin-stemmed cocktail glass, umbrella he coaxed from the tender who usually only used the things on nights younger kids came down from Midtown looking to slum it up, maraschino liqueur a milky white and sweating, and a tumbler in his other hand. Yeah, and he knew they were still working on their drinks, but it wasn't like these would go bad.—Cris slid Penny the daiquirí, La Floridita, and kept the Old Havana for himself.
"For the lady," he told her with mock reverence after settling with a grunt. "Told him to start a tab in your name. You can keep the dime though."