Arthur laughed and took Sam's hand, lifting his eyes to meet Sam's in the intervening four inches between their eye levels. Arthur's hand was cool, professional, and hard as dried shark skin in all the right places. He carried guns and he carried them often, with callous down the inside of his index fingers and the flat of his his palm. The line of his knuckles were more solid than a prize fighter's, which meant he did a fair amount of bare knuckle, probably unplanned, fighting. And unlike Sam, his spine was like an iron pole, straight up and down. Military training.
The most well-dressed, well-spoken military man to ever exist short of JFK.
He smiled as his assumptions about Sam's physical prowess were confirmed by the rough hand. He gave a solid shake without trying too hard, and then he let go. "Arthur." On a whim, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a card.