"Richard...actually", Andrews says, hearing his name misspoken. As he smiles at the lady sitting near him, all he can think about is his pistol, in a lockbox, being loaded on a cross country flight while they speak. "But you probably knew that," he says, sure that she's purposefully messing with him, "seems that you know quite about about us. But we, on the other hand, know little about you." Andrews lights up a cigarette, and blows smoke across the bar, waiting for a response to his freshly changed subject.