Is that so? I'll have to thank him for his service, madame. I thought you might be Canadian -- it's your accent. Smooth and sweet, like honey.

I'm a bachelor. Er, by choice, I should add.

"Yes, I think I will." Rathore folds up the paper and puts it under his arm. "There's something here. I can feel it on my neck."

He strides toward the building. After a few steps, he stops, turns around to Crutchie.

"Well? Aren't you coming?"

Your *husband*? ( Doubtful. But he likes a challenge. ) I see.

Hmm . . . Judging by the speed of the trees going past, I'd say . . . Around thirty miles an hour, wouldn't you?

So, what's your husband in, might I ask?

Not at all. It's not even my first time on the Occident. What luck that you chose to sit there, mm? I can tell you all about it. Answer your . . . *Burning questions*, I'm sure.

( Looking up at her. He breathes in a big gulp of air and folds up his paper. )

. . . Not at all, madame. Join me?

when they've got their own albatrosses. Most of the time it's pretty boring stuff, but . . . It pays the bills. It's the interesting cases that keep me going. The brain-teasers. I *like* a challenge. Don't you?"

He turns to the man with his little pen and paper and shrugs. "You heard the girl. We'll split a bottle."
Seeing him off. Rathore considers the question. "A little of both. Call it my albatross. Oh, I'm not complaining; I was able to make a career out of it. Nowadays people find me

"Let's see . . ." He opens the paper with a flourish, flicking his wrists, the paper rustling in his hands. "Scoop Vance. What kind of a nickname is *Scoop* . . . ? Reporters for you, eh?"

Would you *keep it down*? *Some of us* are trying to read the Sunday Column.

He dives out of the way without looking, onto the busy sidewalk, right into a pile off trash bags left for collection. Rathore climbs out visibly ruffled & cringing at the stench. He had right of way!

"WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING!" A tut, wiping himself off. "I *have* to get out of this city . . . "

For giving you the attention you wanted. As a matter of fact, I--

Hold on. I recognise you from somewhere, don't I?

I'll take that as 'thanks'.

"Call me Rathore. Lead the way, *Crutchie*!"

"Enchanté, Madame Blanchet. May I call you Cèline? I'll admit I've never heard it pronounced that way before." He waves the barkeep over. "What's your poison?"

( He takes it out with amusement. Smiling, despite his words: ) I *have* to get out of this town. *Everyone's* a showman.

Maybe you got it from sitting at a typewriter for so long. *Or*, might it *just be* because you're used to *looking up* at your man? The scuffs on your knees tell me all I need to know.

You rather *enjoy* being *watched*, being *dissected*. I think you *like* being observed. After all, you asked me to prove myself, didn't you? Here's my favorite tell of all. Just *look* at the way you're sitting. Leaning forward from your lower back, your chin lifted a little.

usually resting their chin at the palm of their hand, listening intently to another. I know this isn't simply a matter of interest or funds because of your eyes. They dilate as you listen -- quite quickly too, might I add, and the more I go on.

Again, perhaps an overzealous reporter, a *broke* reporter, trying to get everything from his cigarettes. What it tells *me* is that you're a rapt listener. This kind of stain happens most in those who hold their cigarettes loosely,

You hardly need a detective to tell you it's linked to the bite marks, I hope? And you smoke heavily, as the yellowing on your index finger tells us, but more than that, note the placement of the stain, at the knuckle rather than your fingertips.

Two explanations for each habit. A double life, then. Here, another example: The pale-baggy skin under your eyes and around your jaw. Lack of sleep, overdependence on dope and coffee, chasing deadlines, et cetera? Hmmmm. Maybe. But let's look closer. You are *anaemic*.

*tactile seeker*. You've spent hours, perhaps years, tracing certain textures that please you. Something cold, I'd guess, given the peeling fingerprints. What're you touching that's cold?

Well... One hand for the work, one hand for the play. It's a good opener, because I see two sides to you.

mess with your hair. I can see that the skin on the fingertips of your right hand is much smoother, as if the fingertips are worn down. Perhaps due to the 'stimulants' you take - again, an obvious one, granted - but no, I think it comes from repeated use. *Sensory obsession*. *You* are a

( A tired sigh. ) Is *everyone* going to make me do this . . . this *party trick* today?

Alright. Where to begin? Your sensory obsession? Why not. You're right-handed, as your pen-callus tells us. But that's elementary. I notice you've mostly used your left hand to adjust your jacket, or

"I do. *And* I know that satisfaction brought him back."

On her 'career': "Is that so? Perhaps you and I aren't so different after all. Do you have a *name*, Madame?"

No, I suppose not.

Alright. I've had *my* fun. I ought to be off. The night is only so young.

I'm not *trying* to impress you. I don't really have to, though you're easily pleased. To a *man of method*, you're an open book, printed in bold type!

A *vague* answer. Alright, keep your secrets.

"A rather big 'if'. Alright then," he says, tossing the boy the coin. "And there's more if the information's useful. Do you have a name, boy?"

You've told me everything I need to know, *pal*.

Got a biting kink, by any chance?