The Hanged Man is loud. So loud, in fact, that it provides a security blanket for privite conversations; no matter how close one sits to another table, no one distinct voice can be made out from another. John Constantine sits at a far booth, a man worn down from questioning. One arm stretched out, one curled around his beer, he leans forward over the table with his eyes closed. "No, no, no bloody no," he says to his companions, "it's in your best interest not to bloody know where I put the soddin' box." "You probably broke it. I bet you broke it, didn't you? You broke the box and won't tell us because it'll make you look like more of an idiot than we already think you are," mutters Sandy, sitting back and swirling the last of his Guinness around in the bottom of his mug. He raises his eyebrows and looks kinda wry. "Trust me, that would be hard. You can confess and I, at least, can't possibly think any less of you. Really." The noise of the bar is definitely jarring to one's ears. Nevertheless - it lessens for a moment. A wave of dropped voices rippling across the room, a sea of eyes turning one pair at a time to the woman who is sitting at the bar. That's all she's doing. Just sitting. Nothing to merit such attention. She's wearing a white tank top and a ripped pair of once-black jeans. Then... a toss of her hair, a tilt of her head as she shifts to glance around the room. *That*, perhaps, is what merits the attention. Her glossy black hair. Her dusky, sculpted features. The dark eyes, the lush lips, the curving hint of a smile. She meets the eyes of men watching and moves her attention onward; as the moment of stillness dies and conversation surges up again, it's the three men in the far booth who are the subjects of her gaze. Chris Chance sits in the booth with an arm draped over the back of it, a pair of mirror sunglasses dangling loosely in his hand. He looks at Constantine across the table with a displeased expression - one that John is likely very well acquainted with by now. He says "You don't have a 'plan' for it, do you?" He looks concerned. "I get the feeling from the way you're denying, Constantine, that..." He pauses as he hears a pause in the bar's murmur. Chris Chance Lean and trim, this man has the fit build of an athlete. He has black hair going prematurely grey at the temples, cropped in a slightly feathered style. His eyes are a steady olive brown shade, flinty and alert. Handsome in a traditional fashion, he has a dimpled chin, high cheekbones, and a slightly upturned nose. He's dressed in a black double breasted suit with a red silk shirt and black tie. Its impeccably tailored and pressed neat and clean and stylish. A red handkerchief sticks out of his breast pocket. Out of doors, he wears a pair of rimless sunglasses. All in all, quite the GQ look. He has a laidback and quiet attitude - a demeanor at odds with the slight edge of wariness in his eyes. Every motion and expression he makes has a certain grace, economy, and stylishness about it. The whole look paints the image of a confident man of taste and distinction...and a certain degree of rougishness. "Damn right I've a plan for it," Constantine says, his eyes sliding across the room with the ease that professional paranoia brings. "And my plan is to keep it from you Phillistines." Chris Chance mutters in a hushed, conspiratorial tone to Constantine, looking at the new arrival. "Say, Constantine. You know how I'm always saying that this place is a dump?" "Look here, I don't want it, I just don't trust you with it." Sand glances up at the bar, brow furrowing slightly, then returns his gaze to John. "You'd probably give it to that chick if she promised you a handjob, and she's probably the Devil incarnate." The foreign woman at the bar tilts her head, the light above illuminating the high plane of a cheekbone. She is quite clearly looking at that rear booth. Through the smoky haze of the room, her dark eyes move slowly from one man to the next; she ends with John. One winged eyebrow arches slightly. "Probably," John says, completely and utterly smitten. Chris Chance smiles leisurely, but then notices that her attention is on the sloppy-assed Brit. His smile grows a bit forced and he mutters "Not a regular, I take it?" Sandy Hawkins shrugs, and flags down a harried-looking waitress-type. He holds up his mug and smiles sweetly. "I'm out?" Gracefully, the high-heeled shoes descend from the bar stool to the floor. More gracefully still, she rises. She is slender, and not very tall, but she moves with confidence. That wave of silence shifts around her again, less noticeable this time, a small circle around her as she makes her way between tables toward the booth. Chairs are moved for her; feet shifted out of her way. Hopeful smiles sent in her direction. She notices none of this; she is watching John. The waitress walks over with a mug to refill Hawkins mug. She glances at Constantine, then across the way at the woman. She smirks a little and thinks she knows how this'll end. "Oh, no. Poor thing isn't coming over here to talk to our Mr. Constantine, is she?" Then she smiles a slightly more genuine smile at Sandy and turns to go about her business, heading back to the bar. Sandy Hawkins actually looks impressed. "They -do- know you well, Constantine." He slumps down into his seat a little more and starts in on his new beverage. Chris Chance shifts a little in his seat, picking up his glass and sipping from it. He observes the woman over the rim of his glass, a strange sinking sensation forming in the pit of his stomach. He begins wondering if he's seen her somewhere before. . o O (Spinoza? No. She's dead. The Minsk Spider. No.) John Constantine's grin is a bit uncomfortable, even if he's more than a little intrigued by the possibilities at hand here. "If she's here looking for me, she's trouble," he mutters softly to Chris from behind his mug, then shoots a look at Sandy. Chris Chance nods vaguely to John's comment, lowering his glass to the table, setting it down gently. The woman reaches the edge of the tables; moves across those few steps to the booth. A faint smile lingering on her lips, she rests dusky fingertips on the table's very edge, and runs her dark eyes - brown, now, from a closer view - over Chris. Slowly. Over Sandy. Slowly. And then, finally, over John. "Gentlemen." Accented, of course. Her voice is low, purring, carrying somehow over the din despite that. Oh Brash America, we love you so. Sandy's lighting a cigarette; he eyes the woman, glances at John again, then sets his matches down and looks at her again. "Do you need help with something, miss?" he asks bluntly. John Constantine leans back in his seat, sliding his beer forward on the table and resting his hands loosely around the mug. "Sandy's just being polite," John quickly adds, "what he meant to say was, who the fuck are you?" Chris Chance purses his lips. He looks out of the extreme corner of his eye at Sanderson, then back towards the dusky femme. He idly twirls the sunglasses in his hand around. "And where do you get off calling Constantine a gentleman?" adds the Golden Ager, deadpan. Remember that elegant eyebrow? Remember how it arches? There it goes again. If anything, the smile on her lips broadens slightly. "Men these days," she comments mildly, "have absolutely no idea how to talk to a woman." She tilts her chin a bit, looks at Sandy. "And no... if I needed help with anything, I do not think it would be you I came to. The mark of failure is so clearly marked on you already." At this, Constantine immediately warms up to the newcomer. Stifling a chuckle, he kicks a seat out from the table with a well-placed heel. "Siddown, 'en," he says, nodding towards the chair. "and get to the point." Sandy Hawkins smiles humorlessly. "One does one's best. If I were more of a success, I'd be dead." That stung, though; it came awfully close. He doesn't, however, mention John's rep - it'd only make him look petty. Yay image. Chris Chance is the master of image, so he simply looks blandly amused by the comment and Constantine's invitation to the woman. The woman is apparently also adept in the ways of kicking chairs; she hooks a heel onto the leg of it and pulls it into place as she drapes herself easily onto it. One long leg crosses over the other; she folds her hands on her knee. Eyeing John from beneath black lashes, she enquires demurely, "Now that you have it, what do you expect to do with it?" Chris Chance's smile goes plastic. He lets it drop from his face like a falling curtain and looks over the woman's shoulder for any lurking associates, be they man or beast. Seeing none, he says "Think its time you introduce yourself," his voice flat and businesslike. Her attention flicks back to Chris. "I think," she replies, amused, "It is far more fun to make you guess." "You some kinda commie?" asks Sandy, after taking a swig of beer. "Or just creepy?" John Constantine's mood turns from curious to frustrated, as if he'd suddenly been assigned the noble task of babysitting a junior high girl with a crush. "Hate to inform you, love, but we're not much for games." "No?" she murmurs sweetly, unfazed. "I must say I'd noticed. If you'd played better in the first place, you wouldn't have your problems now." From afar, Dolphin is thinking about bestowing a token on you lucky types. Does that fit in? Sandy Hawkins starts to say something snide, then looks away. Really, it wouldn't add anything, and if it wasn't ignored he'd just get cut down again. Beer is friendly, at least. Chris Chance frowns, reaching into his jacket. He does not pull out a firearm, surprisingly - he retrieves a slender gold cigarette case. He snaps it open and fishes one out with a nimble pair of fingers. "You know so much about our problems," he says, sticking a cigarette between his lips. "I can only assume you have some sort of invested interest in them. You must also know what happened to the last few people who claimed such a privelege." The foreign woman tosses her head, sending waves of black rippling past her shoulders. A laugh, swift and delighted. "So suspicious! No... I cannot say I have a vested interested at all, anymore. You stand out like beacons to the proper eyes... I suppose I was merely curious." Chris Chance hears 'proper eyes' and looks meaningfully across the table at Her Majesty's Secret Bastard. "Proper eyes, huh?" Sandy Hawkins scowls, "So what the hell, you just came over here to rub it in? That's swell, really, but I'd think someone like you had better things to do with your time." John Constantine returns Chris' gaze, and pulls a pack of cigarettes from an inner pocket of his jacket. "Smoke?" he offers towards all at the table, noticeably quiet in response to the newcomer's comments. The woman reaches for the cigarette pack and delicately extracts one, holding it between her fingers. "It's possible," she notes lightly to Sandy, "that I was going to help you. But I cannot say any of you are being very pleasant." The cigarette is twirled a little. "Now.. which of you will give me a light?" Chris Chance gestures to his very much more expensive and therefore better cigarette, shaking his head. He makes a smooth show of lighting the lady's coffin nail with his pretty pretty lighter, then does the same for his own. He motions to the mystery guest. "Help us? You're the first person who's offered that. Unless you count all the people who tried to kill us." Sandy Hawkins says "I'd never presume to speak for John, but maybe if you hadn't immediately been a bitch I'd be more pleasant," answers Sandy almost sulkily. He waves his own cigarette at John and shakes his head slightly. Then, adding to Chris's comment, he notes, "And I'm sure the people trying to kill us were positive they were trying to help, given our former situation."" "I'd never presume to speak for John, but maybe if you hadn't immediately been a bitch I'd be more pleasant," answers Sandy almost sulkily. He waves his own cigarette at John and shakes his head slightly. Then, adding to Chris's comment, he notes, "And I'm sure the people trying to kill us were positive they were trying to help, given our former situation." John Constantine simply stews with his cigarette and cyncisism. The cigarette, once lit, is lifted to her perfect lips. A slow inhale is followed by a smoothly professional exhale of smoke. The brown eyes travel the table once again; the other way around this time, John to Sandy to Chris. Then, slipping her free hand to the pocket of her jeans, she draws forth a slender chain, from which dangles a gleaming silver locket. A simple thing, round, engraved with flowers. She dangles it from her fingers. Chris Chance regards the trinket. "What's that? The key to hell?" He's joking of course. Key to hell. Pfft. Sandy Hawkins says "So basically, you're here because you're the last living bastard descendant of King Arthur and somehow that locket can prove it, if the right incantations are muttered in Cornwall, but you need John to do it and you needed to approach him here because everyone in England is trying to kill you?" John Constantine, who by this time has had a few, leans forward with a forced grin. "Oooh," he gestures, "our next clue!" La femme mysterieuse rises smoothly from her chair, one foot pushing it back out of her way as she takes another drag of the cigarette. Sandy is ignored. She extends the locket toward Chris; turning her hand, she lets the chain slip and the bit of jewellery drops to the tabletop. "A light," she replies, "for a light." And then, with an absolutely devilish smile, "Until you need to...... don't open it." Turning, she walks away. Oh, so very smoothly. Patrons shifting obligingly out of her path. Sandy Hawkins mutters obscenities in several languages and occupies himself with his beer and some grafitti that's been carved into the wall. Bitch. Chris Chance does not touch the locket. He watches the woman walk away, admiring her departing figure. But in a tasteful way, of course. He slouches a little back into his booth. At some point, somehow, noticeable as she is, the woman is lost in the crowd. A waitress crosses before the path of your vision, perhaps, or a drunken patron stumbles by. Either way.. she's gone. John Constantine watches her go, quiet as he processes that brief interaction. "The fuck," he mumbles, then looks up at Chris and Sandy. "I thought she wanted me!" "Jesus!" exclaims Sandy, "Who the hell would want -you-? Except maybe the Baron. That much was clear." Chris Chance smiles in spite of himself, the cigarette tilting up in FDR fashion with the upward curve of his lips. He hovers a hand over the locket. "Read the signals, Constantine," he offers helpfully. "Now, do I pick this up or do you want to go get some holy water?" "My holy water is Jack Beam," Constantine replies, "but I'd rather not douse it in that, yeah?" Chris Chance shrugs, then picks up the locket. He holds it in his fist for a second. He smirks a little, cheek dimpling in a winning fashion. He studies it carefully. "So, anyone care to guess who she was?" Sandy Hawkins says "My earlier guess doesn't count?" Chris Chance looks to the Devil Incarnate expert. John Constantine licks his dry lips, and finishes his beer. He sets the glass down in front of him with a satisfying wallop, his features curled a bit as he looks to Chris. "Reckon she's one of the good guys," he says, "but I've been wrong before." Chris Chance makes a non-commital grunting noise. He slowly pulls his breast pocket open a little with a crooked finger, then slowly, gingerly drops the locket into it. "Think I'll hold onto this thing, in that case." Sandy Hawkins really doesn't have anything to add to any of that, except "If you suddenly bring on the ten plagues, don't call me." He finishes off -his- beer, then sets the glass on the table and stares at it for a bit. "Listen - have fun. I'm off."