It is currently 16:41 Pacific Time on Fri Jan 24 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 54 degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the east at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.21 and falling, and the relative humidity is 71 percent. The dewpoint is 45 degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (54% full).

Studio

The studio is airy, elegantly modern and full of light: a large, high-ceilinged square room with almost an entire wall of windows. It still smells of paint, though there is no evidence of current painting. Rolled canvases lean in one of the corners, and a few finished pieces adorn the walls. A six-foot length of pipe hangs a painting behind the couch, creating a slightly more personal space that evidently serves as a bedroom; the piece is a dark, strange cityscape, an oddly skewed view of the world beyond the glass seen through otherworldly eyes. The edge of a futon can be seen beyond it; the walls around the bed bear swirling patterns of colors, calming shades of undersea blue and green. These patterns gradually soften as they grow out into the rest of the room, where walls are visible; angles replace curves, until the mural becomes a mix of ocean and curcuitry. The sofa is quirky and curving, a work of modern art upholstered in green velvet. A Turkish rug in vibrant tribal colors occupies much of the hardwood floor; the coffee table, a sculpture of recycled blue and green circuit-board and shiny aluminum, rests on it in front of the couch.

Opposite the windows, a compact kitchen is marked off by a crisp stainless steel counter. The west wall nearby has doors to a closet and to a small, sparsely-appointed bathroom. The east wall holds bookshelves of pale wood, supporting a small stereo, collections of pictures and found objects, and a good number of books; the corner between shelving and the wall of windows holds a plain wooden desk with a slim notebook computer and phone atop it, and an elegant mesh rolling chair.

Salem's knock sounds on the door, characteristically short and brisk.

Rina answers it without a sound, letting him in with a signal for silence and opening and closing the door as quietly as possible. The reason becomes clear as soon as he hears it--a voice coming over a speakerphone or something like it. The sound seems to be coming from the notebook computer on the desk, though. "...send the contact info?" An older man with a Chicago accent, pronounced.

Salem lifts both eyebrows, but says nothing; he simply gives the kinswoman a nod. Quietly, remaining near the door, he removes his gloves and undoes the buttons of his coat, listening.

Rina goes to the laptop and hits a combination of keys, then says, quietly, "Sorry 'bout that. Had to get the door. Ah, lessee... d'you know Napoli?"

The man's tone is crisp, businesslike. "I know him."

Rina paces a little, arms crossed, her expression preoccupied. "He knows the best way t'get in touch. If Mr. Galatieri could send his preference through him, I'll meet with him at his convenience. A day's notice is fine..."

Salem slips out of his coat, watching her, and the faintest smile flickers at the corners of his mouth, pleasure worming its way through the cracks of solemnity. Still keeping quiet, he paces toward the couch and takes a seat, slinging his coat over the back as usual.

Rina leans down over the desk and writes something on a Post-it pad, while the man on the other end speaks. "I'll let our mutual friend know, then, and Napoli will get back to you."

Rina holds up the notepad, to reveal the words 'CHICAGO MEETING' written in black marker. "Thanks very much. Please give my regards to Mr. Giancana... Ciao."

"So long," the man says, and then Rina hits another key on the computer, evidently severing the connection; the speakers go dead with a popping sound.

Salem nods, stretching his legs out as Rina finishes the conversation; he rests an arm across the back of the couch and continues to watch her, still with a hint of that faint smile.

The Kin girl lets out an explosive breath, puffing out her cheeks as if relieved it's over. This is not something she does often--it implies that she was worried, which in turn is a kind of admission of weakness. "Holy fuck," she says softly, staring at the blank sketchpad on the working easel.

"Business?" Salem hazards, cocking his head slightly as though to favor his good eye.

Rina nods, blinking several times as if mildly stunned. "Yeah. I, ah..." Shaking her head as if to clear it, she murmurs, "I'm just going to get some advice from some friends, about what to do about the Russians."

"Good." He considers her thoughtfully for a moment. "Have you thought about what you're going to do about Carter's offer?"

Rina winces, and looks away. "No." She paces to the windows, and then comes back toward him, her eyes watching his face. "What d'you think?"

Salem shakes his head. "I don't know the man well enough to say. I'd still want to know what his price was. And how easily he could be eliminated if he becomes too, mm. Problematic."

Rina glances aside, her eyes narrowed and her expression dark. "He needs to be eliminated anyway, I got a feeling. But I'm not sure. I gotta talk to the good one. Find out if we oughta interfere, if it's... gonna get crazy."

Salem lifts his right eyebrow. "Crazy?"

Rina gives a small shake of her head. "There's two of them. And they're...fighting each other or something. Idunno."

Salem grimaces. "Wizards," he says, mildly disparaging -- certainly without the level venom that would have been expressed by the previous Walker Elder. "But, speaking of interesting personalities in town... have you ever heard of a man called Eddie Lo? Fast Eddie?"

Rina's brow furrows slightly. "I think I heard the name /somewhere/... coulda been from you, or one of the Gnawers or somethin'." She crosses her arms, and leans back against the wall by the bookshelves. "Enlighten me?"

Salem scratches at his chin. "Probably from me. He runs the repo business where I work. Friendly little man. Talks like a bad Tawainese pimp and claims to be either from Indonesia or Bangkok." The Walker's wry expression makes it clear how little he believes this. "What I'm certain of is that he's _not_ getting his primary income from purely honest repo."

Rina raises both eyebrows. "Really." One corner of her smile quirks upward. "Can you either get proof, or convince him you have it?"

Salem smiles faintly. "Probably. In fact, the very best thing about Eddie Lo is that, from what I've seen, he can be trusted to act in his own best interests." His eyes narrow slightly. "He acts like a smiling fool but isn't... you know the type. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't dabble in quite a lot. I know for a fact that he rents out his back room for, mm, meetings between the unsavory."

Rina purses her lips slightly. "See what you can get. If we get a good lever on him, maybe we can... convince him that workin' with us is in his own best interests."

Salem nods. "Will do." He rolls his shoulders and gets up, pushing his hands into the pockets of his BDUs. "I'll let you know if I make any progress that way."

Rina nods, preoccupied. "Yeah." One hand rubs at the back of her neck, and she looks a trifle nervous all of a sudden. "I, ah, want to spring somethin' on ya... I hope you won't disapprove."

Salem gives her a guarded look. "Spring away."

Rina swallows. "I'd like to lease another apartment in this place. Somewhere with enough space for me 'n'Cat both, until he's old enough to be on his own. But I don't want it in my name... I'd like to be sure that it's relatively safe. So I-- wanted t'ask if you, um." Rubbing at the back of her neck again, and wincing slightly, she asks, "You got a record, or anything?"

Salem, relaxing slightly, shakes his head. "I can sign the lease, that's fine. Somehow," he says wryly, "my record's remained clean."

Rina looks the slightest bit relieved. "We oughta pull you a fake ID, too... but generating the credit record takes time, and all. So that'll hafta wait."

"Mmm." Salem rubs at his jaw, on the left side, his fingers just underneath the stripes of keloid tissue. "Right. Plenty else to do." He frowns, putting his hands back into his pockets. "My face isn't exactly a forgettable one."

Rina winces. "Yeah, there's that," she murmurs. Looking over to him, she asks, "You want anything? Go out for a drink, shoot some pool or somethin'?" A faint smile comes to her lips, baring teeth a little and softening her thoughtful expression. "I could stand to get out."

Salem's eyebrows lift; he gives her a hint of the crooked rogue's grin that she got to see the other day. "I haven't played pool in months. Reggie's, then?"

A much more genuine smile answers him--bright-eyed, like a child looking forward to a trip. "Love to," she says quickly. "I'll change, a'ight?" Turning on a heel, she steps behind the screen of the painting and promptly suits action to word.

Salem has the time to get out a quick, "Er, right," and turns around, putting his back to the screen. He picks up his coat from the back of the couch and makes an inventory of the pockets.

After a little while she comes out again, her hair combed back a bit more neatly and her attire decidedly more... sophisticated than jeans. She grabs a double-breasted leather jacket out of the closet, and opens the safe--getting a small .38 that can hide easily enough in the inside pocket.

Sinfully tight jeans of black leather pour down her legs, into heavy black thrash boots. An eighteenth-century shirt of coarse grey silk drapes over her upper body: sleeves full and billowing, front trimmed with a falling froth of delicate grey-dyed lace, cuffs of the same lace half-hiding her graceful hands. Over the shirt, or sometimes cast over her shoulder, is a sculpted, tailored double-breasted jacket in black leather; the black 'suit' gives her beauty a rather predatory edge, and plays up the unstable shifting of her expressions.

Salem turns back around as he hears the safe opening, and shrugs into the long black leather coat. He views her change of attire with veiled approval and tugs on his gloves as she arms herself from the safe. "Nice."

"Thanks," she murmurs. "Let's ride."


Pool Hall

Pool tables, with one foosball table and an air hockey table hiding among them, dominate the space of the hall, hardly yielding any space for the motley crew of players chalking their sticks and eying the brandy bottle at the bar lining one wall. The dust and scratches on all surfaces save the green velvet lining the pool tables indicate this hall as skimping on maintenance and cheap on cleaners. Its lack of flashy videogames and surplus of toothless kibitzers underscores its appeal to the older crowd. No natural sunlight is permitted into the hall, its lighting provided by bulbs swinging from the ceiling.

A recent 'renovation' to the hall has caused many splinters and embdeed bullet holes, adding much to the aged atmosphere. Ruddish stains, dark and ominous even under the lights, refuse to be washed out of the floor. A dart board brightens up the walls with its red-and-black scheme, and a moosehead looks down on the proceedings.

Mounted from the ceiling, a television blares its glaring brightness and noises.

A set of double doors, one locked, the other unlocked at the whims of the hall manager, lead out to the street. Unobstructive doors behind the bar undoubtedly lead to storerooms.

Salem, ever the gentleman, holds the door open for Rina. "Ladies' pick of the table," he says lightly.

Rina steps in, heading for the counter to pay. She points vaguely toward an unoccupied table, gesturing with her wallet.

Salem nods and splits off toward the table, pulling off his gloves as he goes and shoving them into a coat pocket. With the weekend looming ahead, the pool hall's doing good business.

Rina joins him before too long, stripping offthe jacket and folding it carefully on a stool, the gun concealed within. She brings two sticks--too much of a snob, apparently, to use the beaten-up free sort. Without a word, she hands off both sticks to him and racks for eight-ball.

Salem examines the pool cues, sighting down one and then the other. Once the balls are racked up, he hands one of the sticks off to her. "Care to break?"

She smiles faintly, and takes the cue from him, leaning over to shoot. It's a hard break, but it sinks the three; she wrinkles her nose slightly. "Been a while," she mutters, pacing around the table to find her next shot.

Salem makes a little 'mm' noise of agreement, his gaze following her. "Been too damned busy." He snorts quietly. "Easy to forget, oh, yes, have to figure in some time to _relax_. Ha." His voice is wry, sardonic.

Nicodemus opens a door to the pool hall and slips inside. No gothic fanfare, no trying to be inobtrusive. In this part of town, he intentionally keeps his greatcoat about him tightly, as if he might just have one or more weapons hidden underneath, and isn't afraid to use them if someone gives him any shit.

At a glance: Goth, male, early twenties, thin, and about 5'4"ish in height--in about that order.

A more extensive eyeballing reveals greater details. Nicodemus is wearing a greatcoat in an 18th Century style that's so dark brown it's almost black. It gives the impression of being travelworn, but without being so. It's unbuttoned and prone to subtly dramatic billowing in gentle or hard winds. Beneath it there's a form-hugging heavy maroon turtleneck sweater. His pants are just plain black dockers, and he's wearing comfortable yet stylish black loafers.

A pair of expensive-looking wire-rimmed glasses rest on his narrow nose. He wears one necklace with a silver skull ornament that has a translucent red crystal inside and a second necklace bearing a delicate silver crucifix. The ornaments and thin silver chains constrast nicely against his maroon turtleneck. His left hand's middle finger sports an artistic finger gauntlet with a couple edges that look sharp enough to double as a box cutter.

The unbelievably perceptive might notice a smallish out-of-place lump at the small of his back under the form-swallowing coat he's wearing.

Rina leans far across the table to take an angled shot--the point of the cue down, putting a little right English on the ball to curve its path some.

A little too much English, in fact; the ball doesn't retain enough momentum to reach its destination, after its first collision.

Salem utters a sympathetic-sounding 'tch' and straightens up, chalking his own cuestick as he surveys the table for a likely shot. A glance across the pool hall briefly snags his attention toward Nicodemus, but he watches the smaller man for only a moment before turning back to the arrangement of colored spheres. Walking around the pool table brings him closer to Rina, and as he leans down to take a shot, he murmurs, "Look who just walked in."

Nicodemus glances left to right, gaze sweeping over the bar and briefly lingering on Rina's leather-clad ass bent over the pool table as she takes the shot. Then moves onwards and finds what he's looking for. He moves between the tables towards a group of guys in their late teens or earlier twenties.

Rina straightens, glancing that way as Salem speaks; a quick smile comes to her lips, and she watches the young man without a care.

Salem banks the ball off three sides of the table and sinks it into a corner pocket. Show off? Perish the thought. Casually, he circles around the table to the other side, deciding on his next line of attack.

Rina crosses both arms over her chest, slanting a glance to the man's shot. "Bastard," she murmurs. Then her gae returns to Nico and his gaggle of friends--cataloguing faces and names where they're known.

"I've been called worse," Salem retorts lightly, casting a sidelong glance and a brief smirk at the kinswoman. His second shot is more straightforward and likewise successful. The third misses, however, by a couple of inches. "Hrmph."

Nicodemus arrives at the distant pool table with the rougher-looking group of youths around it and gives a nod to one of them about his own age and a generic acknowledgement of the others' existence. The thuggish youth throws an arm around Nicodemus' shoulder and the two move off from the main group, discussing privately. The remaining members of the group return to the game.

The door opens, and Raphael drifts in on the brief, chilly burst of air it allows in. He gazes about rather distantly, taking in the crowds and decor, and continues his way to the bar, shifting just slightly as he wends his way through the rest of the current crowd, passing through the spaces between them.

The grunt recalls Rina,and she looks back to the table distractedly. Another walk around to the side of the table where he stands, and she frowns slightly before taking an easy angled shot. No fancy tricks this time. She sinks one, and moves immediately to the next shot, left as a single bank when the cue ball stops.

Salem's coat rings -- or, rather, the cellphone within it does. The Glass Walker, who's now eyeing Rina somewhat guardedly, grimaces and goes to answer it. "Be right back."

Rina smiles faintly to herself. "Promise not to cheat," she murmurs, as she bends over to take the next shot.

Striding into the pool hall is Alicia, dressed to kill for a weekend out on the town. She seems to be all smiles this night.

Nicodemus and Thug-Boy converse quietly with one another, voices pitched so as to not carry more than a few feet from one another over the general din in the pool hall. After a few minutes of conversation, hands in pockets, the two youths extend hands and shake. Hands return to pockets and they go their separate ways--Thug-boy back to his gang at their pool table and Nicodemus turns for the bar, almost reflexively glancing for a fraction of a second in Rina's direction as she bends over the pool table yet again.

Raphael claims an empty stool at the bar -- a practiced move, almost graceful considering the awkwardness inherent in it when one isn't particularly tall. A quiet conversation with the bartender results in something clear, which he sips at while looking around the room again, slightly more curiously now.

Rina sinks hers, and takes another shot, this time able to look in Nick's direction. She flashes a smile that he may or may not catch.

Salem returns after only a few moments, clicking off his cellphone and looking only moderately irritable as he heads back toward Rina. He catches sight of her smile and follows her glance toward Nicodemus; his lips thin for a moment, and then he gives his head a slight shake. "I miss anything?" he asks the kinswoman, while slipping the phone back into his coat.

Raphael

    God, he's thin. So painfully skinny, scarcely a hundred pounds on his 5'4" frame, if that; all slim lines and delicate angles. His features are finely drawn, high cheekbones and classically beautiful bone structure; his dark eyes, dusted with golden-brown shadow and lined with black kohl and mascara, are made large and luminous by his spareness and the paleness of his skin. Feathery, true black hair, shining blue when the light hits it, falls constantly across his face, curls down around his ears, flirts with the nape of his neck. The overall effect is at once disquietingly fragile and ethereally lovely.

    His shirt is heavy black cotton, long-sleeved, with a very shallow v-neck; the fabric skims his body, managing to make him look, if anything, even smaller than he really is. Beneath it, his slightly faded black jeans fit closely -- it's amazing he could find them small enough -- and, perhaps predictably, disappear into battered black knee-high combat-style boots. Chipped black enamel coats his nails, but he appears to have no jewelry, no piercings, no tattoos; no such adornment of any kind. Overall, he wears a rather expensive-looking ankle-length woolen coat, hanging open and letting the breezes in.

Rina frowns, missing her bank shot by a hair. "Tell ya later." Her voice is soft. "Probably just a buy."

Salem arches a brow, then takes up his stick and studies the balls thoughtfully. "Didn't know he was into that sort of thing," the Walker remarks quietly. He leans over the table, setting up his shot.

Rina glances to him, surprised. "He used to be... the guy," she murmurs. "Before his days as a boy in blue..."

Raphael's gaze seems to settle on the Walker and kin's table, and he twists slightly to lean sideways against the bar as he sips his drink, watching them play.

Salem sinks a ball and moves around the table to set up another shot. "Wonder if that's where Sally got hers from." He doesn't notice Raphael's attention from over by the bar; his one-sided vision moves from the pool table to Rina and back again.

"Wouldn't be surprised," Rina says quietly. She scans the room with dark, quiet eyes... and notices the watches. A smile tugs at one corner of her mouth, although one hand does touch the folded jac ket on the chair.

Salem misses his second shot and straightens up. "I still can't believe Roger thought I slept with that little bitch," he mutters, somewhat grumbly-like. He glances at her, notices her attention elsewhere, and spares Raphael a glance. Just that, nothing more; his expression is guarded, neutral, though his eyes narrow faintly before he looks away.

Rina snorts. "Sally? Not your type." She offers the boy a crooked smile, and turns to find her own next move, bending over the table's long axis to aim. "Hail Mary," she murmurs, "full of grace." On the last word she strikes, sending the 2 straight into the corner pocket. With authority.

Raphael twines one foot around a leg of the stool, and the other foot around the calf od the first, still watching as he finishes off the drink. Attention returns behind the bar long enough to get a refill, and then back to them, watching the balls move around the fabric.

"_Thank_ you," Salem says, in response to Rina's judgement of Sally MacKay. He seems to pay the man at the bar no more mind. Then again, with scars like his, he's surely used to being stared at, and Rina is, well... Rina. In tight leather jeans.

Rina paces around the table, slowly, pushing back her cuffs to keep the lace from interfering. She seems to be paying the pretty boy some attention... just looking, with those dark eyes, when she leans across the table. There's a glance to him, and then her attention moves to her shot. She touches the tip of her tongue to her upper lip, as if that will make her aim better.

Salem's lips thin slightly, his eyes narrowing again, just for an instant. Then he shifts his weight, leaning slightly on the cuestick as he watches her, cool as a cat dozing in the sunlight, his manner composed and aloof.

Just barely, Rina misses her next. "Fuck," she mutters. She gives Salem a wry look, a little twist of her lips. "Might as well deliver the killing blow," she says quietly, spreading her arms in cruciform.

Salem quirks a half-smile at her. "I'll make it quick," he promises. He lofts an eyebrow at her, holding her gaze for a beat, then leans over the table, lining up the shot.

Rina tips her head back a fraction, smiling at the scarred man as she lowers her arms. "Such a gentleman."

Salem snaps the stick forward, and the plain white ball cracks into the striped four, knocking it into one of the side pockets. "Always," he agrees, then shifts to the end of the table to sink another ball. He makes it look easy.

Rina crosses her arms and leans against the wall, staring disconsolately, that wry twist on her lips. She sighs. "Well... we could use you to hustle in some cash, sometime," she says dryly.

Salem finishes off the rest of the striped balls and studies the eight-ball, frowning at where it lies in relation to the cueball. Definitely an inconvenient arrangement. "Hmm," he says, and then looks over at her with an expression of mock injury. "Is that all I'm worth to you? Pool hall swindles for pocket change? You _wound_ me."

Raphael drains the remnants of his drink, and sets the glass on the counter, slipping lightly from stool to floor and stretching slightly.

Rina's smile curves a touch more, gently. "Coup de grace, Jack," she says lightly. Her dark eyes glance to the pretty goth, then, and the smile fades to something a little more....appreciative.

Salem's own good humor fades a little bit, but the narrow look doesn't last more than a heartbeat. He shakes his head again, mouth curved into a wry half-smirk, then focusses his attention on sinking the eight. He leans over the table, head cocked to favor his good eye, studying the angles carefully.

Rina turns her attention to the table again, and puts a hand to her throat.

The layout is against him; Salem grimaces as the cueball drops into the pocket instead of the eight, and he straightens up, shaking his head as he flashes an rueful look at Rina. "Alas. You have a final shot at victory."

Raphael hesitates at the far corner of the pair's pool table, and hovers there for a few moments, watching and waiting for the outcome of the game. Another young man brushes past him, earning a startlingly venomous glare from the slight goth. If looks could kill, as they say.

Rina blinks, her attention drawn back to the game; Salem's scratch apparently is enough to distract her from the scenery. "Really. Will miracles never cease." Her tone says perhaps he threw the game. However, she takes up the challenge and sets the white ball down, lining up a simple shot to sink one solid into a corner. Another, side pocket. The last is a challenge, but this time she makes it... and leaves herself a decent chance to sink the 8. She circles the table again for the best angle, offering the boy a half-smile before she bends to take her shot. "Ciao, baby," she murmurs as it thuds into the corner pocket.

Salem frowns slightly at Rina's dubious tone, looking mildly insulted. "It was a difficult shot," he grumbles. "I'm allowed to miss occasionally, aren't I?" The saturnine man gives the prettyboy a glance, studying him more openly now that he's chosen to approach the two members of Family Cockroach.

Rina leans against the edge of the table, and chalks, dark eyes sliding to the boy. "Drink for your thoughts... " She grins. "If you're old enough to drink."

Raphael takes a deliberate step away from the man who's bumped him, and the glare remains on him for a couple seconds after the guy's shrugged, looking unconcerned, and continued on his way. Then Raphael's attention returns to the game, in time to catch the end, his expression gradually passing through intense annoyance back to fairly relaxed interest. "I was thinking," he replies, cocking his head a little as his focus moves to Rina, "that that was a nice shot."

Salem finishes his study of the pretty stranger and leans against the side of the pool table. He brushes back a stray lock of hair, tucking it absently behind one ear; though not actively hostile, he doesn't seem particularly welcoming toward Raphael, either.

Rina grins. "Thanks." Her smile is relaxed now, easygoing... a marked contrast to her looming companion. "You new in town? Haven't seen you before..."

The young woman slouches casually, wetting her lips again, almost as if she tastes the air. And it's possible, in here: the place is smoke-wreathed, and some of the clientele overindulged in cheap cologne.

Raphael nods slightly, one hand drifting forward to rest on the edge of the table, then moving slowly as his fingertips play along the outside edge of the felt. "Yes, fairly new. I've been here a month or so, I suppose. Though I think I might have seen you before. At a club, maybe." He turns his attention to Salm, studying him for a second or two. "I know I've seen you, though. At the bookstore."

Salem absently twirls his cuestick, cocking his head as he turns another steady, neutral regard on Raphael. "Possibly." His eyes narrow. "In fact... yes, I think so. Upstairs, in the used book section?"

Rina raises an eyebow archly, and looks over to the scarred man as if surprised. "A gentleman /and/ a scholar," she murmurs, not hiding a smile.

Salem gives Rina a rueful look; his chill manner definitely warms when he looks at her. "You don't have to sound _that_ shocked."

"Yes." Raphael seems unfazed by Salem's regard, or at least mostly so; he doesn't look away, at least, though his attention couldn't quite be considered challenging, exactly. "You took the black man downstairs to talk. Apparently, he made you smile; that's what he said, at least. That was when."

Rina purses her lips oddly at Salem, one eyebrow still raised. She offers Raphael a crooked smile, then, and holds out a hand. "Rina. And you are..."

"I'm sure that they were all quite amazed," Salem remarks, half underbreath.

"Yes," Raphael agrees to Salem's murmur, "...they were." He doesn't take the proffered hand, but does incline his head and shoulders to Rina in a slight bow of acknowledgement and greeting. "Pleased to meet you, Rina. Raphael," he introduces himself, before glancing to Salem, "...and I was told you're named Jack Salem."

Rina laughs a little, glancing over to Jack. "Your reputation precedes you, huh?"

Salem folds his arms across his chest. "It always does," he replies to Rina, humorlessly dry. He gives Raphael a nod. "I'm Salem, yes."

Raphael smiles faintly at Salem, "Pleased to meet you, too," he remarks, tilting his head a bit.

Rina rolls the cue stock absently across her palm and back again, watching them with a faint half-smile.

"Likewise," Salem says, with the minimum level of courtesy. His eye strays to the clock over the bar, then back to Rina. "Getting late," he remarks, with a touch of apology. "Not that you have to cut short _your_ evening."

Rina lifts a shoulder. "Depends if the archangel, here, wants a game," she says lightly. The wry smile seems to doubt that he will.

Raphael's fingertips continue to play over the felt as he considers. "I might," he decides, "...I believe you owe me a drink, at least. For my thoughts." Attention returning to Salem, he adds, "I'll be seeing you later." Almost more of an assertion than a farewell, really.

The Glass Walker's eyes narrow at this last from the prettyboy. Then he grunts and glances at Rina, lifting an eyebrow quizzically.

Rina's expression is thoughtful, her eyes preoccupied as she watches them. "I'll buy you a drink, archangelo," she says. A glance to Salem, and she adds, "But I oughta be gettin' home, after that."

Salem glances at the clock again, then nods to Rina. "I can stay that long, at least."

Raphael's hand drifts up to brush a lock of hair behind his ear. "That'll do. I take vodka," he informs her, watching them both.

"Straight up?" she asks, that twist of a smile coming to her mouth again.

Salem arches an eyebrow slightly at Raphael's choice of drink.

"Straight up," Raphael confirms, one eyebrow arching slightly, the ghost of a smile at one corner of his lips again.

Rina leans her stick in the corner, and slants her eyes to Salem. "Anything, Jack?"

Salem shakes his head. "Need to keep sharp tonight," he says.

Rina nods, and goes to the bar... her movement drawing one narrow-eyed look from a shaggy-haired young man in the group Nick had words with.

Salem's eye follows Rina across to the bar, lingering on the woman, and then turns back to Raphael. "So," he says. "What brings you to St. Claire?"

Raphael watches Rina for a few moments as well, before looking back to Salem. "I was sick of LA," he replies, candidly enough. "What do you need to keep sharp for, tonight?"

"Business," Salem answers, shortly, with an undertone of mind-your-own-business. Setting the poolcue aside, he reaches into the long leather coat he's got slung over a chair nearby and removes his cigarette case and lighter.

A wave of laughter comes from the group at the other corner table. Nick's unsavory-looking friend heads for the door, glancing once to the bar on his way out.

"Mm," Raphael replies, with a slight nod. "...can I trouble you for a cigarette?" he inquires, when the case and lighter emerge.

Salem grunts. "Sure." He passes one to the goth, a plain white tube, handrolled, no filter. He sets a second one between his lips and sets the lighter to it, puffing. "Need a light, too?"

"Please," Raphael replies, extending the hand with the cig across the corner of the table, to where Salem can more easily reach it. "If you'd be so kind."

Rina threads her way back to them, glancing to the leather jacket draped across a stool in the corner--as if to make sure it's still there. One drink occupies each hand: clear in the left, amber in the right, both of them double shots oured into heavy highball glasses. She watches Salem, as she heads toward them.

Salem lends the goth his lighter with a curtly polite, "No problem." He turns back toward Rina as she returns with the drinks, and again the eyebrow lifts when he spots the amber one. His lips thin; he takes a deep drag on his cigarette and speaks to Raphael again. "This town must be quite a change from that you're used to."

Raphael accepts the lighter and lights up before returning it. Perhaps oddly, he seems to do it quite carefully -- never touches Salem's hand, just the lighter itself. "Mm... mostly, I suppose," he grants, with a little shrug. "Not as different from LA as LA was from school -- it doesn't matter all that much, really. Most places are, overall, alike."

Rina hands off the vodka shot, and lifts her own glass slightly. "Salute," she murmurs, and knocks back half the whiskey at one go.

Salem eyes Rina somewhat warily, the way she downs that whiskey, then takes another inhale of his cancer stick.

"A votre sante," Raphael replies softly, with the ghost of a smile again, and takes rather a good swallow of his own drink. If those two he drank at the bar were vodka, too, he must hold his liquor fairly well for someone so slight. "...thank you," he addresses both of them, then, before taking a drag on the cig.

"You're welcome," Salem says briskly. He takes a brass pocketwatch from his pants -- it's attached to a beltloop via a length of chain -- and clicks it open, glancing at the time.

"Anytime," Rina says absently, sipping at her whiskey. Narrowed eyes scan the room again. "Maybe we'll raincheck that game."

Raphael nods to Rina, and gives his head a slight toss to flip his hair back, both hands being too full to do it. "Another time, then. You'll kick my ass, I suspect. But it could be fun."

"Don't know about that." An insouciant, wry half-smile comes with the words. The young woman tosses back the rest of her whiskey, then, and moves to pick up her jacket, setting the empty glass on the vacated stool. There is something decidedly heavy in an inside pocket, evidently.

Salem closes the pocketwatch and puts it away, then takes up his own coat, shrugging into the long leather garment -- which has plenty of its own, innate heaviness.

Raphael inclines his head to both of them, in turn, and sips his drink, then downs most of the rest of it, apparently also preparing to leave. "...pleasure meeting you both," he adds, before finishing the last few sips, "I'll see you about."

"Sure thing," Rina answers, flashing him a fainter half-smile and then turning to make her way out.

Salem grunts. "Likewise, I'm sure." He straightens the set of the coat on his shoulders and takes out his gloves, slipping them on. He follows Rina out, falling into step with her like a well-trained guard dog.