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[h2][color=0054a6]Richard Barker[/color][/h2]
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[color=0054a6]"...Yeah, I get what you mean Kevin, but listen..."[/color]

Stacks of newspapers, a dozen plates and cups, and the pair of muddied gumshoes of the man sitting in a far too old office chair, littered the desk on which a telephone stood. The chord strung loosely from the desk to the reciever in the hands of a tense man, trying his best to calm down and do something by the book, which proved to be no easy feat all things considered. After all, unlike others Private Detective Richard Barker talked to these days, Kevin on the other side of the line knew how how the P.I. ticked and worked. 

[color=0054a6]"...wait, so they have an alibi after all? And what might just that be?"[/color]

A document cabinet stood in the corner of the small office, itself placed in the corner of a less-than pleasent-looking office building in downtown New York City. Like the office itself had its secrets, so did the cabinet. The phone still tightly trapped between the detective's ear and shoulder, the cabinet was opened and a bottle pulled out, though its contents was as dissapointing as Richard's. Even a stern shake of it yielded only the bare buttom of his glass, much to his annoyance. The conversation didn't help. 

[color=0054a6]"Jesus Christ...I know they're lying, Kevin, I just know!...no, thanks Glasses. I owe you one. Take care, and don't let Hoover bite you in the ass. Night..."[/color]

So the Order, well more specifically the two heads of the Hermetic Order has alibis on the disappearance of a certain member. Well...shit. this was more rotten than he'd guessed, even for all the brain-twisters he'd seen since that incident with a haunted house in Boston...or was it Arkham...He couldn't remember, and frankly tonight he didn't give to shits. 

He really needed some giggle juice. 

Richard put down the reciever and stared at the glass in his hand, contemplating whether this was enough for him to go to sleep without dreaming of Her...or even HIM. Probably not, nothing could get that old Mr. Corbitt out of his head anytime soon. Believe him, he'd really tried. So with a swift swig of the glass and an even swifter departure from his office, Richard Barker found himself out on the streets of New York, looking for the next best Gin Joint in the city. 

Well...somehow he found one, though it certainly wasn't Kansas anymore. 

A fog enveloped Richard after a couple of blocks, though the seasoned New Yorker wasn't phased by it. Growing up in the city told him these things tended to happen on nights like these, and the bare minimum of alcohol didn't make him question it. So when he found himself in front of a rather rustic-looking fascade of a tavern, he only asked two questions: "Does this look like a place run by O'Bannion, and do they sell JP Wiser'S?

Only his entrance into the Nameless Tavern would answer those questions and quence his thirts. 

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The change of atmosphere phased Richard briefly, with the lack of outside noise giving him second thought stepping into the tavern. Having just left a semi-busy street with cars, trams and whatever New York had to offer of its bountyful clientell of drunks, whores, cops and thugs, the inside was...calm. Too calm. Richard stood out like a sore thumb in the rustic tavern, looking more like a brown pub in merry ol' England rather than a New York speakeasy...then again, who was Richard to start asking questions? 

The P.I. took a few cautionary steps inside, his detective gaze never ceasing to inspect the interiours and people seated around, while he himself made his own strides towards the counter...refraining from commenting on the rather odd fellows already inhabiting the joint. This was New York after all. If you wanted to find the freaks and odd Joes of the world, this was the place. 

[color=0054a6]"Pardon me, buddy, but got any good ol' whiskey rye back there? Make it on ice, and don't worry. I don't work for the Feds..."[/color]