White crunched a piece of ice between his teeth, let it slide down his throat. Shook the man's hand. Maybe nobody else at that table had ever been to prison, the way they acted around him. That would make the investigation a bit trickier, if it were true.

Brown scooted over to invite the newly christened Mr. Blonde to have a seat, fearless or otherwise too self-absorbed to give a shit (sociopaths and egotists, most criminals). Mr. Blonde sidled in, easy and chuckling and generally pleased to be there. Larry studied the joker's face (literally, all sharp angles and teeth like a cartoon villain) but then let him fall to the background.

Nothing special about Blonde, except maybe the inside joke that had to do with the color he'd been assigned because his hair was black -- the greaser image hadn't been too far off base, cowboy boots and bowling shirt and jeans tight enough to rekindle the waitress' interest in refilling their drinks. Prison had scared whatever resemblance to a toothpick this guy had ever had right out of his frame, which meant he was the big guy in the group, and every head would be turned cautiously his way when it wasn't following Nice-Guy's authority.

Which was good news, really, because it diverted any attention away from Larry. Watch the crooks when they were watching someone else. Diversion half the work of any magic trick. Pay no attention to the man behind the bloody curtain.

Hell, Blonde's arrival was damn near a blessing.