(Untitled)

[still_burned]

Michael is so relieved to see the bar, there are hardly even words. Even more so to see that Christmas is over here - back in Miami, he's had to succumb to his mother's emotional blackmail and so there is an excruciating dinner in progress, all full of false happiness and overcompensation. And just the two of them because Nate is off doing

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[mr_ryan_wolfe]

Ryan walks over to him "Had a rough day?"

[still_burned]

'That obvious?'

Half a beer disappears in a couple of deep swallows.

'Merry Christmas.'

[mr_ryan_wolfe]

"Yeah, Well not so much just that, you looked at the beer like a saving grace good tell."

[still_burned]

'Oh, tonight I'm going to find out whether it's actually possible to drown in this stuff.'

[justcallmefee]

There's a package waiting for him at the bar.

It's a simple address book, perhaps the size of his palm. And the handwriting in it is neat and precise, and very familiar.

It contains a list of contacts -- valuable contacts. And beside each one, there's a symbol. He knows the code. He taught it to her. It's a list of forgers, electronics experts, materials suppliers, and other shady types. And it's surprisingly thorough for the Miami metro area.

The note attached to it is in the same precise hand:

Thought these might come in handy. Merry Christmas. ~F.

PS. Also, buy your mother a new coffee pot. Trust me.

[still_burned]

He flicks through it and the small smile on his face could be called fond. He knows the book might be useful - he doesn't want it to be but given that Fi has already proved that he's going to be in Miami a while, he'll no doubt need this.

He asks the bar for pen and paper and writes a quick reply.

Thanks Fi.

I'll find you next time I'm in.

Coffee pot? He's sure he'll find out what that means some time soon.

[olyabird]

"Another. No, whole bottle. Puzhalstya." A bottle of Grey Goose appears on the bar.

The tiny woman sitting at the bar seems to be ahead of you, Michael.

A mostly spent cigarette clamped between her fingers, she pours another shot, an intent look on her face. She drinks it down in one go and sighs in appreciation. The smoke goes back between her lips for a moment as she fishes out another, lighting it with the coal of the first.

Judging by the number of butts in the ashtray, she's been here awhile.

[still_burned]

It occurs to him to wonder whether smoking bans will ever appear here. He hopes so.

'Evening,' he says, in perfect Russian, after watching her for a while.

'You know, I think your country will object if you drink their supplies dry.'

[olyabird]

She looks up at the sound of his voice, her brow furrowed as she blinks, focusing on him. Her palm taps the bar twice and another shot glass appears. The smoke dangles precariously from the corner of her mouth while she speaks.

"This," she fills the second shot glass, "is French vodka. Smooth enough for Americans to drink." She uses two fingers to slide the shot glass to him.

[still_burned]

He looks at her and, politely, runs a hand over it in a gesture of declination.

'I'm more used to the Russian.'

He's still speaking her language and he'll stick to beer. Going home dead drunk would cause more than a few questions.