moral. And where there's money being offered, there's always a taker. Just cause or none. I've done case studies on it from recent files and it's probably the hardest scenario to crack. Hit-man sees money, hit-man wants money, hit-man seeks target. But we have to look into every one in fine detail to the exclusion of all prejudices, otherwise it'd just be at risk of turning into a witch-doctoring-hunt to get our hands on their property if we fancied it, same as the tribes were doing - like Warren and Yuri stripping cars afterwards. Your profile that head office are looking into now has possibilities though. It's like the farmer thinking a pest is a person, or an evil spirit controlled by a person. If a former soldier, looking for a zombie to kill, could be persuaded to identify a target alternatively as a drunk person or a sick one, empathise with them as neutral, you've got a chance of reversing his psychosis."
"I think that's why doormen have always been on the To Do List," I told him. "In our everyday job, there is no such thing as neutral. Civilians, soldiers, police - if it's off-duty and drinking in our venue, it's all a legitimate enemy at some point."
"Not a job you want someone in who's likely to abuse it," Connor agreed.
"Is that why you were spending a lot of time analysing surveillance data in your overtime?" I asked him. "Do you still look for the underlying vermin as a cause, metaphorically speaking?"
He shook his head.
"Can only hope to get the facts straight doing that," he sighed. "Today's society is every man and hit-man for himself. Making up his own justifications for doing it. If only it was that easy, as finding the big boss in a video game and shooting him down, or the head vampire or whatever in a movie. In the West, we're not at the mercy of super-pests or predators, except each other in little everyday and not-so-everyday ways. And the risks to our own sanity THAT brings."
So while we stand at the bar, in public, not talking freely once we arrive, I have time to think over what's already been said, while his hand resting idly on the back of my waist reassures me that the connection hasn't gone away entirely, just because we're in work mode - although I'd rather the reason for it wasn't just that we're MEANT to appear loved-up as part of our cover.
I notice that I'm sounding insecure and demanding and possessive in my head, and how annoying it is to feel like that. Like my brain is a method actor, trying to get into a new character that's unfamiliar to me. It's as if my brain was also an easier place for me to occupy while I didn't trust him. Keeping the two of us defined as separate.
"That's for you," he says, pushing a glass towards me. "Bet you can't down it."
"Bet I don't want to," I reply. I look around the bar, judging the other customers. Not the kind of crowd you see out clubbing. More hair and beards. More lumberjack shirts. More Dolly Parton than Barbie Doll.
"Hey," Connor nudges me with his elbow, making me turn back to the bar. "Stop being a doorman, staring at people. Drink your Pimm's and lemonade."
"My what?" I ask, staring at the glass.
"How many customers in the bar so far, without looking behind you again?" he asks me quietly.
"Twenty-three of them, one of me," I reply at once, still looking at the drink, thinking it sounds like a really gay thing to order in a Blues bar.
"Pimm's o'clock," he nods, and grins. "Cheers."
He clinks glasses with mine and drinks, and I pick mine up and take a sip. Actually it tastes kind of nice. I don't have much of a taste for alcohol. I think it's all mostly nasty, unless it's with Elaine, who I trust to get tipsy with once in a while as she won't make me try anything new or yucky, or more than 5% proof.
"What's in yours?" I ask.
"Vod cola," he says. "Don't worry, I'm not driving us back. We're getting a designated driver. One of the perks."
"Good," I say, and take another sip, getting used to the taste.
"No - I didn't put anything
"I think that's why doormen have always been on the To Do List," I told him. "In our everyday job, there is no such thing as neutral. Civilians, soldiers, police - if it's off-duty and drinking in our venue, it's all a legitimate enemy at some point."
"Not a job you want someone in who's likely to abuse it," Connor agreed.
"Is that why you were spending a lot of time analysing surveillance data in your overtime?" I asked him. "Do you still look for the underlying vermin as a cause, metaphorically speaking?"
He shook his head.
"Can only hope to get the facts straight doing that," he sighed. "Today's society is every man and hit-man for himself. Making up his own justifications for doing it. If only it was that easy, as finding the big boss in a video game and shooting him down, or the head vampire or whatever in a movie. In the West, we're not at the mercy of super-pests or predators, except each other in little everyday and not-so-everyday ways. And the risks to our own sanity THAT brings."
So while we stand at the bar, in public, not talking freely once we arrive, I have time to think over what's already been said, while his hand resting idly on the back of my waist reassures me that the connection hasn't gone away entirely, just because we're in work mode - although I'd rather the reason for it wasn't just that we're MEANT to appear loved-up as part of our cover.
I notice that I'm sounding insecure and demanding and possessive in my head, and how annoying it is to feel like that. Like my brain is a method actor, trying to get into a new character that's unfamiliar to me. It's as if my brain was also an easier place for me to occupy while I didn't trust him. Keeping the two of us defined as separate.
"That's for you," he says, pushing a glass towards me. "Bet you can't down it."
"Bet I don't want to," I reply. I look around the bar, judging the other customers. Not the kind of crowd you see out clubbing. More hair and beards. More lumberjack shirts. More Dolly Parton than Barbie Doll.
"Hey," Connor nudges me with his elbow, making me turn back to the bar. "Stop being a doorman, staring at people. Drink your Pimm's and lemonade."
"My what?" I ask, staring at the glass.
"How many customers in the bar so far, without looking behind you again?" he asks me quietly.
"Twenty-three of them, one of me," I reply at once, still looking at the drink, thinking it sounds like a really gay thing to order in a Blues bar.
"Pimm's o'clock," he nods, and grins. "Cheers."
He clinks glasses with mine and drinks, and I pick mine up and take a sip. Actually it tastes kind of nice. I don't have much of a taste for alcohol. I think it's all mostly nasty, unless it's with Elaine, who I trust to get tipsy with once in a while as she won't make me try anything new or yucky, or more than 5% proof.
"What's in yours?" I ask.
"Vod cola," he says. "Don't worry, I'm not driving us back. We're getting a designated driver. One of the perks."
"Good," I say, and take another sip, getting used to the taste.
"No - I didn't put anything
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