The tension in the air was so thick, he felt he could cut it with a knife. The fact that he had an uneasy feeling that something big...something even bigger than what had just happened...was about to go down didn't help much either. He took a drink of the dark concoction in front of him, and then shook his head. "No. Sphinx isn't dead. Though I suppose it's best the Feds think he is." Truthfully, the tank of a man had been lucky as hell to have made it. If car boosters were worthy of guardian angels, surely he'd had one that night. "He gutted some bullets and took a drink, but old Miss Atlantic delivered him to safety." He'd been shocked to hear of it from Freb himself.
He inwardly winced at the dry, dead way in which she spoke of how she'd been written off. He knew that it had to have wounded her badly to go through that. Goddamn, it wasn't fair for her. He didn't even know how to respond...what could you say to something like that? He wanted to reach for a smoke but settled for his drink, polishing it off. He desperately wished he could get drunk here tonight, but knew he couldn't allow himself the luxury. "It wasn't your fault. None of it was. I wish they'd have realized it." It was like some kind of effed up, tragic romance novel, Except usually the hero of a tale didn't do things that got the heroine stripped of her career. Suddenly having the urge for another drink, he waved the bartender down.
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