â€œNow whoâ€™s been tellinâ€™ lies abouâ€™ me havinâ€™ frienâ€™s?â€ When Tink laughed, it was a peculiar hissing sound. And it wrinkled the dot under his left eye in a way that might have been true, honest amusement. â€œGonna hafta teach that liar a lesson abouâ€™ how tâ€™get away withâ€™at.â€<br/><br/>He lost, the first out, on the virtue of a spectacular bluff. That was okay with him. The point of the game wasnâ€™t to win, or else he wouldnâ€™t have bet like he did. Tink played his own games with people who didnâ€™t even know he was doing it. He wondered what the crew would do with their new toy.<br/><br/>But Tink didnâ€™t look like he lost on purpose. His attention, supposedly, was mostly on Jack. Must have been a real good piece back on the street. Tink though, heâ€™d run that racket before, and on principle you didnâ€™t do the merchandise. No matter how good it looked. There was just no spirit in a real whore...<br/><br/>With a semi-wistful look he turned on Reed. â€œAh well, thatâ€™s the way it goes. Win some, lose some.â€<br/><br/>After such a loss, Tink became what passed as all business for him. â€œNow which Heavenâ€™s it that dear Reed would like to visit? Ya know Iâ€™ll be yer angel, kiddo. But only fer a price. Nothinâ€™s free Reed. They teach ya that first in thâ€™business. But Iâ€™ll give ya somethinâ€™ now fer a promise ya pay me later.â€<br/><br/>Tink had a scrap of paper in his pocket, torn from the margin of a book and scribbled on incoherently, and cast about momentarily for something to use to write with, remembered there wouldnâ€™t be anything, and scowled. A muttering of â€˜need thisâ€™ and a snatching back of his clip later, he scratched deeply enough at his arm and gotten enough blood to make a mark on the paper. Gave the clip back of course, since heâ€™d wanted the gang to have it in the first place.<br/><br/>â€œYa come see me. Tâ€™night. I promise ya Iâ€™ll getâ€™cha cell unlocked.â€ Tink smiled and when he did it was a sign of danger. A signal that he was thinking something. â€œI do that fer ya though, anâ€™ fer some reason ya donâ€™t come through fer meâ€¦ Well, mighâ€™ start callinâ€™ ya somethinâ€™ otherâ€™n Pirate rounâ€™ the blocks, hey?â€ A quick look slid over to the bird, frigidly calculating; his pleasant smile never left. â€œAnâ€™ leave the fuckinâ€™ pigeon. I ainâ€™ dealinâ€™ with no feathers in mâ€™cell.â€<br/><br/>He started to hand the scrap of paper to Reed and thought better of it, holding onto it still.