After making her comfortable, at least, as best he could, he begins to annotate her words, stopping on her question. It seemed like a question that would either raise suspicion, or be a form of an accusation. He had seen Chicago on the news reels, men like Al Capone, using cars and Thompson submachine guns to do his will. He had seen the Thompson during his time on the battlefield, but he had no idea that the gun would become known as "The Chicago Typewriter" and "The Chicago Street Sweeper" within ten years. He had seen the Irish trying to overtake New York once again, even though they faced adversity since the exposure of Boss Tweed and Tammany Hall.<br/><br/>He takes a moment to pause, knowing that it would be best to answer honestly. "They're scum, honestly. They're taking advantage of laws put in place by our government, in order to make a dollar or two. They are monsters, monsters who lust greedily after power and wealth. I was only a few years old when the Tammany Hall scandal rocked New York. You know, they still exist, even after people learned of the bribes, kickbacks...Prohibition only gave them something else to use as their means to their endgoal. Men like Capone, Boss Tweed...mobsters...they will do as they like, life is a chessboard, and we're all pieces to them." His voice betrays the anger he feels about the subject, betrays his outward steely resolve.<br/><br/>As he speaks, he analyzes her movements. She's shifty, nervous. She knows something, and she is either afraid or unwilling to tell. However, all he can do right now is attempt to calm her, to try to make her focus. "Miss, I need you to tell me what you do know. I can't make bricks without clay, so the expression goes, so I need you to breathe in, steady yourself, and provide me with any information you can." His tone of voice is still so rough, commanding, his days on the battlefield had left that habit with him.