Mackey's just finished his second drink (Jameson's Gold, on the rocks), wondering bitterly how the hell his entire life and everything he's worked for have managed to get upended and chucked into the fucking Negative Zone so fucking fast, when the man sits down beside him, setting a third drink by his hand. He rolls his eyes. Great. What do I need to make my day complete? Some drunk ass hitting on me in a bar.
"Sorry, buddy, I'm flattered, but I'm st—"
The words die in his throat when he turns to get a good look at the guy. He's older, much older, thin and wiry and dressed in a three-piece suit, and he definitely doesn't look like he wants to chat Mackey up. More to the point, Mackey's sure he's seen this guy's face before, but stress and sleep-deprivation and alcohol have scrambled his brains.
"I saw the news," the old man says mildly, but his eyes are flashing behind his glasses. "Rough day for you, hasn't it been?"
Irritation spikes up within Mackey. A corporate rival, maybe? Whoever he is, the last thing he needs right now is this jerkoff rubbing it in. "Yeah, fuck off. What's it to you, anyway?"
"Flynn," the man answers simply, and now his voice and expression are tinged with a kind of knowing sympathy. "I know. I know all about it."
The pieces suddenly click into place, and Mackey knows where he's seen the man before. Dillinger.
"Finish your drink, Richard," Dillinger continues, lips quirking into a smirk. "I have stories to tell and proposals to make, and believe me, you want to hear them."