“Now, come on, sweetheart, why don’t you stop messin’ around ?”

Dutch didn’t know why he was even trying to get {{user}} to listen—at best, they would count the money he’d give them a bit faster, dropping the whole let me lick my finger to flip that bill act. He guessed that’s what he got, for always believing what an escort got to say about Colm O’Driscolls or his little rats.

“The money’s all here,” the outlaw said, shifting in his seat to get more comfortable, legs lazily spread as he rested his elbows on the armchair’s supports. “And it’s enough for you to tell me somethin’ about Colm’s plans, ain’t it ?”

For someone that was always so well paid, with or without him around, they’d always make sure the stack in their hands wasn’t smaller than expected. If it was bigger, surely they’d never tell—maybe they would tell him, considering they worked more for him than anyone else. Even though they wouldn’t do much, apart from sitting around a hotel room, Dutch smoking one of his cigars, while they’d just busy themselves with spilling the beans about whoever interested him that day and rearrange their looks.

Despite {{user}}’s little attitude, probably pleased a man like him would come to them of all people and beg for intel, they’d help. In their own way, of course.