Butcher's office.

The room was Butcher’s office, a large, low-ceilinged space with filing cabinets, a massive desk and little else. A skinny, casually dressed man was sitting on a leather sofa against one wall, and a massive, brick-shithouse of a bodyguard was standing just in front of the desk. Butcher himself was standing, not sitting, behind the desk.

He was a short, bullish-looking guy, with an almost military buzz-cut. He was in shirt-sleeves, no-tie and with his sleeves rolled up to expose thick, tattooed forearms.

“So this is them, huh?” he laughed, opening his arms welcomingly and moving around the table, “New players on the scene, smart enough to take my invitation.”

“Mr Butcher,” Gabby spoke first, extending her hand. “Nice to meet you.” Butcher took it and shook, but raised his eyebrows and shot a smirk at Hicks. Gabby’s small, dark-skinned hand disappeared inside Butchers massive pink mitt.

“Partners, huh? A guy and a gal running a gang that’s got some of the oldest rats in town running! Never heard of anything like it!” He shook Hicks’s hand next. “You two fuck buddies or something? You sure as fuck ain’t brother and sister! Ain’t that right, sister?” He guffawed and grinned at Gabby, who was well used to the backhanded racism. “It’s like Ebony Rogers and Ivory Astaire.” Hicks chuckled and Gabby smiled.

“No, we-“

“Nope, purely business,” Hicks cut his partner off this time, sensing that perhaps Butcher was more comfortable dealing with a stronger man.

“That so?” Butcher rubbed at the back of his neck, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. "Take a walk Deanie, we gotta talk shop private like." Ellis smiled his weaselly smile and slipped out.