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"Pleased to make your acquaintance". He raised the rocks glass in his hand.
A purely symbolic gesture — he was the only one drinking between the two. The upbeat voice hid none of the intentions behind it. The friendly lopsided smile on his face served as an invitation for fools and a caution for men; he wanted to know who he was dealing with.
"Mr. Sinclair".
His companion didn't reciprocate, and Augustus took a drink of his whiskey. Good.
Rapture's parties were... something. He didn't land on whether something else or something awful. They suffered no lack of opulence, some local snobs even called them "gaudy", but Augustus would prefer another descriptive: useless. Andy kept playing with his made-up money, tossing it under their noses like feeding pigs, but it didn't change the reality.
Every respectable man in here puffed out cigar smoke and every head-turner lady wore the most elaborate dress. Cigars that were made in Rapture with local tobacco; not only it proved not enough, it didn't like the damp climate of however many feet under they were. And the clothes? Well, Augustus didn't care for feminine apparel trends, but even he knew they wouldn't stay the same for over a decade. Yet nothing truly changed in Rapture; the same peplum-adorned dresses and velvet shoes — all the rage after the war — started to grate on the eye. Not to mention, fabric remained a bigger shortage than the aforementioned tobacco, and so less fortunate ladies' attires showed wear and tear all over.
Social gatherings turned into a loop. Nobody in, nobody out, the same handful of faces and bank accounts, in the same garments, with the same news, using the same leftover cologne and drinking the same alcohol with sour aftertaste. (Not of the Sinclair Spirits, mind you. The Tzar of Rapture tolerated Augustus, yes, but not enough to offer his merchandise in the high and mighty society.)
Hard to find anything useful in a swamp you've already searched, isn't it?
"You've made quite a name for yourself, mister?" He cocked his eyebrow, a rising tone implying a question.
"You know how to call me, sir". No lukewarm respect was put on the last word.
They exchanged warnings, although of different kinds. It was a level field.
Getting this elusive stranger to a tête-à-tête proved a surprisingly uneasy feat. Wherever he went, at least five paparazzi and ten desirous girlfriends followed. A man from a real world! The illusion of Ryan's dollhouse crumbled as soon as the masses remembered the sun. Unable to see it again, they clung to the man as if they could feel it through his tanned skin. Augustus had to catch him at a pretty small function, tell a few fellows to keep the attention away, and, the hardest part: make the alien speak.
"Why, friend, I trust your folks didn't name you 'Johnny Topside'? Unless that's an almost foreseen coincidence".
"That's between me and them. Johnny is fine".
Nobody knew his name. Nobody knew where he came from. For an overnight celebrity, the man kept his mouth shut tight. He must've had brains or an agenda, and Augustus longed to learn which one before this transient'd be thrown into his joint. Not even as a business incentive or blackmail material; that too, of course, but a primal need to be ahead of the group. Neither Ryan nor Fontaine had sunk their claws in this case, and nothing else brought him joy more. Andy was a naïve utopian and Frank was a thug.
Augustus was a lawyer.
"Well", he leaned back on the wall, a deceitfully relaxed pose: shoulders sloped, the free hand in his pocket, feet crossed at the ankles. "If you say so. Privacy costs a lot down here".
"I trust you know a lot about it".
Did he know? No, how could he. Most of the Rapture's council didn't. Sinclair Solutions was a perfectly fine business if you'd only gandered at its front. Still, Augustus knew people called him 'sleazy' more than they called him a man.
"I reckon I can be called an expert on most things here, yes". He paused. "Except for you".
This wasn't a private lounge, and anyone could join in or at least eavesdrop, although he did tip the waiters to watch the stairs. Thank God they dimmed the neon sign right above them. Thing gave him a headache every damn time. And the songs on the jukebox... not that he hated them for their artistic value, God forbid. But Augustus was tired sick of them as much as he was of fish for lunch.
"Everyone here wants to know about me, Mr. Sinclair".
"An' there's something I do... whether you care for a drink?"
'Johnny' had a heavy stare. Augustus couldn't quite put his finger on it, as his big bright eyes and an open face would imply otherwise. A bit of a smile would render him more handsome than most, a ladies' man and a trustworthy partner. Instead, he pressed his lips just a little bit too much, tilted his head just enough for the eyes to narrow. Johnny looked down on Augustus, unusually tall and muscular for the soft sybaritic men like him or most local money-makers. An uneven laborer's tan made his light brown hair stand out under the obnoxious lights of the restaurant.
"I'd rather not".
He didn't move. He didn't do anything at all, standing there frozen in place, without sitting down or leaning on anything, no pose, just his arms down his sides like an army man. Augustus never went to war, prided himself on being too smart for that... wondered if Johnny did. The man seemed close in age, a few years younger, perhaps, or maybe just good-looking enough.
"Not a man of many words?"
Johnny bit the inside of his cheek.
"Not the ones you'd like to hear".
"An' you know what I'm interested in?"
"I know I don't want you to know anything about me".
"You already told me enough before we had a chance to meet". Augustus finished his drink and put the glass on the table left to him.
"Like what?"
"You're not an agent or a spy, like the big man thinks. That's for the worse". Finally, Augustus got a reaction out of him, even if a meek lean back. That confirmed it. "I will explain it for you — as a friendly gesture, 'John', but mind it, I don't offer handouts often".
The man's jaw clenched at the moniker. "Indulge me".
"And if you're an agent, you've got a suicide mission. We're here a pretty close-knit an', uh, pretty closed-off society. The G-men wouldn't send someone so tight-lipped to a bunch of paranoics down here, they'd give you an alibi. You hafta be a one-man operation".
"Maybe that's what they want you to think".
Augustus pulled out his cigarette holder and lighter, ignoring the last words. "Johnny"'s eyes followed his every movement, and he made sure to take time with them as he opened his cigarette case, too.
"Andy's gonna kill you".
"I have broken no laws here".
"See? Anyone with the government knows laws don't mean a thing".
"Then why do you tell me?"
The light flickered in his hand.
"You mind if I drink to us meetin' again?"
"I do".
Augustus smiled as he took a drag of his cigarette. Contraband from Frank. No fondness between the two; Fontaine's direct methods were just a tad too crude for his liking. But you needed someone of his breed to taunt Ryan with both balls and fists of steel... the consensus on the material for his brains still lagged behind.
"You're a dead man walkin' already, kid. At least lose the long face, will ya?"
"Johnny" felt uncomfortable in the dress shirt, he suddenly realized. It didn't fit him quite well, and he twitched his shoulder a couple of times. Did they already ditch the fashion upstairs? Not to mention no tie or any other "respectable" accessories — something men of Rapture took pride in regardless of their financial status. Made even the lesser of all feel dignified. Augustus couldn't tell more, with the lighting and distance between them.
"You shouldn't worry, Mr. Sinclair. You're not going to see it again".
"Wouldn't that be a waste", Augustus bared his teeth.