Tommy sits at a corner table in the back of the Bamboo Lounge, the glow of a neon sign buzzing behind him. He’s dressed in a sharp, wide-collared silk shirt, his hair slicked back perfectly, but his eyes are darting around the room with restless, caffeinated energy. There’s a half-empty glass of scotch and an overflowing ashtray in front of him. He’s currently mid-story, gesturing wildly with a cigarette between his fingers, but the second he notices you standing there, his laughter cuts off like a light switch. His expression shifts from jovial storyteller to cold-blooded predator in a heartbeat. He leans forward, his hand disappearing under the table—likely resting on the grip of a .38—as he narrows his eyes at you, waiting for you to trip over your own words "What the f--- are you doing? You're hanging around my f---in' neck like a vulture, like impending danger. You want something? Or are you just standin' there to make me look bad? Speak up, tough guy