"Iris. As popularized in Europe through the French nobility. An apt name for a woman in Chanel. Why are you here *really*, Iris? It's not safe for a lady like you."
So he was right, he thinks. Was it ever in doubt? He takes a long drag of his cigarette, grinning proudly, blowing out a thick plume just past her face. There's no rush like pleasing a lady.
"A deal's a deal," he reminds her.
Rathore, bolstered by her reaction, her floundering for a response, raises an eyebrow. Let her make her own rope, he decides. She's flustered, trying to find an out. She's clearly not used to this sort of questioning. No matter what she'll say, she'll answer herself. "Well, is he?"
So, if you really are married, or at least engaged, you'd have all the proof you'd need on your hand.
Why not take it off and tell me if I'm right . . . *ma'am*?"
And, I mean, above everything else, the *real* giveaway here: it's a Chanel, isn't it? Bijoux de Diamants. What kind of dope buys Chanel for a wedding?
Of course, I might be wrong. You could prove me wrong pretty easily. Wearing a ring long enough leaves a tan line and indents the skin.
Well, this one's easy enough. I know you bought it, because it matches your style. Money, yes, but new money. It's *trendy*. A man never pays attention to this kind of thing.
I'm leaning towards success ring. A way of showing off, which is exactly what you're doing now, asking me to identify it.
Probably the former, because you haven't been playing with it, like most married people do. So, it's a diamond ring, worn on the wrong hand, without any of the ceremony a marriage demands. That says to me it might be a promise ring, or maybe a success ring.
A kept lady wears a platinum or even just plain gold band behind the diamond. The rock of a husband. But that's not all. I notice the diamond hasn't been polished yet. So it's new, or not worn enough to need cleaning just yet.
It's where the vena amoris is said to be. Not enough proof alone, I'll give you that. But what about the missing companion? A woman of class never wears a diamond alone -- Marriage's supposed to be a duet, after all.
I don't paint the portraits. ( A long drag of his cigarette. He gives her a smile; he has her in suspense, right where he wants her. ) I just sell 'em.
I first knew you weren't married when I saw the ring. It's on the wrong hand. A wedding band goes on the left hand.
Why do I always get the weird cases?
Night. It's started raining. For nine-to-fivers, shifts ended long ago, and the pulse of city life has changed to something slower, darker, hedonistic. But Rathore's job is only just beginning.
Speak of the devil. He looks up at the sound of a knock at the door, to see the reader coming in.
๐๐๐ง๐ฒ ๐ฆ๐๐ง ๐ก๐๐ฏ๐ ๐ช๐ฎ๐ข๐๐ค๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ง๐ ๐'๐ฆ ๐ฎ๐ง๐๐จ๐ซ๐ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ข๐ง๐
๐๐ก๐๐ฒ ๐ฌ๐๐ฒ ๐๐ฒ๐ข๐ง' ๐๐ข๐ง'๐ญ ๐ง๐จ ๐ฐ๐๐ฒ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฆ๐๐ค๐ ๐ ๐ฅ๐ข๐ฏ๐ข๐ง'
๐๐จ ๐ ๐๐ญ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ ๐ฎ๐ง ๐๐ง๐ ๐๐๐ญ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฅ๐ข๐๐ ๐ข๐ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ'๐ซ๐ ๐ ๐ ๐๐ฆ๐๐ฅ๐๐ซ
๐๐จ๐ฎ ๐๐ซ๐๐ฐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ง'๐ฌ ๐ก๐๐ง๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ข๐ง๐ฌ๐ญ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฉ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐ซ๐ข๐๐๐ซ
A challenge, ma'am? Everything's simple, if you explain the facts methodically.
Alright, I'll explain it, but I want something in return: Your name.
try to throttle me. But I get what you mean. I guess so, yeah. What's the matter? Trouble at home? I'd say your husband, but you're clearly not married. In fact, I doubt you live with anyone.
( Rathore says nothing, lighting his cigarette and joining her. He has a frown as he watches her smoke, trying to understand her. Women are a fascinating subject for detectives. They spend their whole lives trying to understand their intricacies, decoding what is not secret. )
Usually my problems
Of course I can. It's all about the makeup of the roll. Even the paper has a part to play in the taste of a cigarette.
What would your hands be doing if you weren't smoking?
Nobody does. That's a detective's job, ma'am.
I've got Egyptian cigarettes, you don't need to be smoking that cheap . . . Lucky Strike *trash*.
Van Blair as in the Van Blair fortune? I didn't know they had a kid called Cassie.
How would that help?
( Scratching his five-o'-clock shadow, frowning. ) . . . Uh, of course I do. I just haven't been home to use it yet.
What're you doing in this part of town? I didn't think it was your scene.
Mmm, not bad, not bad. You look like a million bucks in a bar full of bank robbers.
Is that a new perfume?
When has that ever stopped anyone doing anything?
I'm guessing you don't want one yourself, then. They're Egyptian.
30.
The punk rock G.O.A.T billy.
Hates everyone or at least says he does
If you bring up his goat head he will bash your head in
Rebel to America
Mun is +18
#mvrp
N/sfw
I don't dispute that. But even the *cheap stuff* from abroad is a thousand times better than the cheap stuff they make over here, don't you think?
Here. Tell you what . . . I've got some money to burn. How about I prove my point to you? We can stick to spirits, I suppose.
Well said. I've got this theory myself . . . how do I put this? When it comes to our vices - tobacco among them - you can't skimp out on quality. I get all of mine imported. Like I say, the same's true for our booze. Sure, cheap bourbon does the job, but why compromise? We deserve nice things.
Perhaps you're trying the wrong ones.
