"Please," he says dryly. "As if your position is any safer from an objective standpoint."

He surveys the nearly empty room with its dark wooden chairs and tables, the bartender wiping the counter with an old rag. The bottles lining the back shelves bear labels unfamiliar to him. Arcadia Merlot. Lacas Scotch. Chechnya Vodka.

The bartender shoots him a hard look. He meets the other man's eyes steadily.

"If one wants a cohesive perspective of the city, one must be willing to make sacrifices," he says without looking away. "To overlook Ryan would be a poor plan."