So his new "buddy" needed to go get some cash, not relieve himself. Connor scowled as he glanced over at the drunk. He could take his money since the man laid it down fair and square, but stealing someone else's wallet and putting their money down was another thing entirely. "I'm sure we can come to some kind of peaceful agreement here," he said casually, "right?"
"I didn't steal nothin'," the drunk declared, weaving slightly as he raised a hand to point. "He's full of shit." The man was a few inches taller than Connor and built like a linebacker in comparison to his lanky frame, but he'd taken down bigger in the past. A surly Russian came to mind. But if he could get out of it by playing mediator with enough to last him a few days, he'd take it.
Gorram was a word he'd never heard before and Connor spoke a few languages. "You did bump into him on the way back over," he added, an amicable lilt to his Irish accent. "What do you say you give him back his wallet and we won't finish playing the last round?" Instead of answering, the drunk stared at Mal, chin raised slightly in a challenge. This wasn't going to work. The asshole was too drunk to think logically.
"If he thinks it's his, then he can co-" As he spoke, staring at Mal, Connor started to reach for the pocket of his coat, heavier than the other and most likely where Mal's wallet was located. For being as drunk as he was, his reflexes were still pretty quick. A muscular arm caught Connor in the chest and shoved him back into the pool table.