Doc turns at the sound of the voice (and while he does make an effort to be subtle about it, she's got legs that go on for days in that skirt) and smiles.
"Evenin', miss."
A beat.
"If I knew him, I'd tell you; but I haven't met any angel here by the name Criss. Yet."
He comes to rest at the bar, placing the bottle of whiskey on the counter.
"The set?"
A glass of ice appears at his elbow, and he tips a portion of the whiskey into the tumbler, taking a moment to appreciate the crackle of the melting cubes as they are splashed with the liquor.
"Oh." He lifts the glass and points at her. "You mean like, the movin' pictures. Are you one of those Hollywood folk from the future?"
"I'm not worried about losin' my job," he replies. "But I will say that your answer will either make this a very interestin' conversation, or turn this into a very interestin' evenin'."
(He wonders what -- or who -- she's looking for, and his outlaw's instincts remind him of the weight of the Colt against his thigh.)
"First drink's on the house, though I see you might've already discovered that," he says, motioning at her glass. "Welcome to Milliways. Bar, restaurant, hotel."
She can't help but wonder if Pan knows about this; the publishing house should, by all rights, seeing as someone's marketed Adams's idea - otherwise, it's a lawsuit-in-waiting.
"Thank you."
She picks up her champagne.
"Is it new? I thought I would've heard of it."
From the Times, or even from Richard, for that matter. This kind of theme would have him all but mouth-breathing with giddiness.
The fashion-plate blonde a couple of stools away lifts her glass of champagne, and swirls the flute with a delicate flick of her wrist.
She casts a glance toward the counter, one eyebrow arched.
"So tell me, what else can you do, and where are you hiding Criss Angel?"
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"Evenin', miss."
A beat.
"If I knew him, I'd tell you; but I haven't met any angel here by the name Criss. Yet."
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"Nice," she says, with a shark-sharp smile. "Authentic. Did you forget to swing by wardrobe before you left the set?"
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"The set?"
A glass of ice appears at his elbow, and he tips a portion of the whiskey into the tumbler, taking a moment to appreciate the crackle of the melting cubes as they are splashed with the liquor.
"Oh." He lifts the glass and points at her. "You mean like, the movin' pictures. Are you one of those Hollywood folk from the future?"
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"New York, actually. Gina Cowell, Black Pawn Publishing."
A beat.
"You've gone full Method, haven't you?"
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"I've only had a glass or two."
Then he looks back at her.
"New York City?" He smiles. "I lived there, for awhile. That one of the new papers?"
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She snaps her fingers, eyes lighting with high-octane eureka.
"I've walked into some kind of Punk'd 2.0, haven't I?"
She leans in, conspiratorial, a knowing half-smile curving her glossed lips.
"It's okay. I'll make sure they don't fire you."
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"...did you just walk in?"
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"If I say yes, does that make you more or less likely to keep your job?"
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(He wonders what -- or who -- she's looking for, and his outlaw's instincts remind him of the weight of the Colt against his thigh.)
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She smiles, dialing up the charm to eleven.
"I'll be honest with you. I just walked in, and I have to say, whoever designed this place has a lock on high-concept."
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One corner of his mouth lifts into a tiny smile.
"At the end of the universe."
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She can't help but wonder if Pan knows about this; the publishing house should, by all rights, seeing as someone's marketed Adams's idea - otherwise, it's a lawsuit-in-waiting.
"Thank you."
She picks up her champagne.
"Is it new? I thought I would've heard of it."
From the Times, or even from Richard, for that matter. This kind of theme would have him all but mouth-breathing with giddiness.
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He shrugs.
"Then again, time gets kinda off-kilter now and again in this place."
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