@thvnkpink
It was going on week two since Barry Seville had shown his face. The man was quiet, introspective, and preferred to keep things close to the vest, but he wasn't irresponsible. The fact he hadn't phoned in even once proved to Ben that something was amiss -- Barry would have told him, had he decided to go chasing after a lead -- so after breaking into his partner's house and discovering it empty? Well...he'd done the only logical thing, and decided to open up an investigation of his own.
Upon further inspection, inside the front door by Barry's keyholder (conveniently missing the keys) was a bright red matchbox, sporting the R.ialto's logo in striking cursive letters. As a bit of a loner, Ben hadn't ever frequented such an establishment, but he'd certainly heard rumors. Barry had never struck him as the type... But in the world of h.omicide, he knew all too well how appearances could be deceiving.
With the matchbook weighing heavily within his palm, Ben entered the glitzy club and was immediately overwhelmed by cigar smoke, sultry jazz music, and the stench of promised debauchery. His shoulders instantly tensed, if only to make himself look smaller, unavailable, and wholly uninterested in whatever offer might be thrown his way.
Instead, he made a beeline towards a gentleman mixing drinks at the bar. "Excuse me," Ben said, sliding the matchbook onto the counter. "Does this belong to your establishment?"
The man lifted his dark, supercilious eyes and appraised him scornfully, the corner of his mouth quirking in bemusement. "You can read, can'tcha?" he asked, adding a bit of vermouth to his concoction. "The sign's out front."
Ben's smile grew tight. "Yes sir, I can read -- but times change. I want to know if this is a recent product of yours, and not a dated one."
The bartender harrumphed. "Yeah, it's recent." Mixing his drink with the shaker, he spared him an impatient look. "You want something or not? I've got plenty of patrons here, buddy."
Pursing his mouth, Ben reached inside his pocket, then slid a picture of Barry across the counter. "What about him?" he asked. "Did you see this man within the past two weeks?"
Cocking his head, the dark-haired man leaned forward and sniffed, then nodded once. "Uh-huh, sure did. Kind of a wise-ass, but he more or less kept to himself. Except for Sandie. He seemed pretty interested in talking to her."
Ben perked up at that. "Sandie?"
The bartender nodded. "All the guys like talking to her though," he clarified.
Trying not to appear too eager, Ben pressed, "And where can I find her? Is she working today?"
"Rain or shine," the man said, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. "She's the petite, pretty one -- the blonde -- over there in that booth. Though you'd better hurry, 'cause she's meeting a client."
After thanking the grumpy bartender for his help, Ben grabbed Barry's picture and made his way through the laughing, cigar-smoking patrons, his heart in his throat once he stopped directly in front of the woman -- this Sandie, who apparently had visited with his friend. Despite his distaste towards venues of this nature, Ben couldn't deny that the blonde had quite ethereal, striking eyes...large, dark, fathomless.
"Um...hello," he stammered. Brilliant. Already off to a rousingly good start. With a wince, he went ahead and slid into the seat across from her, his hands clumsily depositing Barry's photograph onto the table. "Your friend back there said you met with Barry Seville," Ben began, finally anchoring a bit of command to his voice. "I'm leading the investigation into his disappearance. Would you mind if we spoke for a few minutes?"
