Her hat's on the table, next to two empty glasses and a bottle of cheap whiskey; when she looks up she's like a western Athena, her sharp eyes cutting through a messy blonde haze.

"Mr. Lehane."

Her smile is quick and precise, not indulging in niceness beyond what good manners demand. She rises to her feet and stretches out her hand.

"Glad t'see you. This is Jim Lowe. Mr. Lowe, meet John Lehane."