Miles flashed the gentlemen his sorry crumpled echo and they dealt him in, and it quickly became clear that 'practised gamblers' these men were not. They were far more interested in sniping at each other between hands, digs and jibes to the rhythm of five-seven-five, and not at all aware of where the money changed hands. Miles quickly took advantage of his free-wheeling speech to play the peanut-gallery to this performance egging them on and spurring them to greater distraction. This kind of ploy wouldn't have worked, frankly it shouldn't have worked as well as it was. But before the three fat-cats could notice his gimmick ... one of the three decided to imbibe something a bit stronger than what was in their cups. 

This is what could only possibly be Honey, and he was getting a front seat show as to its effects. The trio slumped and fumbled, wavering drunkenly even in their seated positions with glazed over eyes and ruddy faces... The first one out had bet the rest of his diminishing funds on an empty hand seeing double and thinking he'd had two pair when he had not. The second went down not too long after that, poorly trying to bluff his hand into something better than it was and getting so hung up on his syllables he folded in shame. The third simply collapsed, dropping his head to the table and letting out a mighty snore- and Miles suddenly found himself holding all the cards as the last man standing.

The detective raked in his winnings with a disbelieving air. Luck never shown on him like this before and he was innately suspicious of its tidings. The majority of the funds were stashed in various pockets about his person- it wouldn't do to put his 'eggs all in one basket' and have some enterprising thief lighten his load for him. He did however make a point to reclaim his original echo- gently pressing out its well worn creases and folding it up tight, tucked it snugly into the band of his hat. Good luck-charms like this was rare to come by and he could use whatever tokens she sent his way... you never know when it will run out. 

Time suddenly reacquaints itself with him, and for a moment he's started by how much has passed without him noticing before the Taverner sets him at ease again. With a grateful murmur of thanks, Miles regains his feet- staggering a bit at how longs he'd been sitting- and it's with that sincere feeling of gratitude he reached into his pocket and retrieved a pair of echos to place in the man's gratuities jar. There, debt repaid with interest- how's that for improvement. 

The private room was easy enough to find, being the only one with any sort of welcoming light to it and Miles entered with little ceremony. And was instantly reminded about all the suspicious dread he'd briefly forgotten. 

The room was Red, deserving capital letters and putting in mind thoughts of hell-fire and brothels. And then there was the Woman. The Debonair Pianist, commanding the room in cool blue, all sumptuous long legs and charming grace with glasses he was almost positive she didn't need... What the hell did the likes of her want with the likes of him?

"I guess you could say that," Miles said in response to her question, his hand reaching up to brush the Echo in his hat, tucking it more firmly into it's place. He took the proffered seat and tried not to look as uncomfortable as he felt, "Mostly Luck i'm sure... and you know how fickle Lady Luck can be."