Annette strolls inside of The Kingfisher's King and immediately understands the urge to fight. In a bar such as this one the impulse is nearly irresistible. It was something about the dim lighting, or the smell of sweat and cigars, or the restrained electricity in the air. After a few minutes inside she could feel her senses heighten and her inhibitions lower. It was only her objective that kept her grounded.
Cordelia returned late the night they investigated the fire. The following night she'd hardly returned at all, stumbling through the door at the crack of dawn already nursing what was sure to be a mighty hangover. Tonight, Annette could feel something tense around the house when Cordelia left, and once midnight arrived and Cordelia had yet to return, she resolved to go pursue her. It wasn't unusual for her to be out late; but three rough nights in a row surely meant something.
The Kingfisher's King was Cordelia's bar of choice - the source of most of her hangovers and the battleground for most of her boxing matches. There are plenty of nicer bars with better drinks but this is where the athletes go, and so Cordelia follows them. Annette suspects Cordelia likes the fact that it was almost exclusively men and that she was often the sole source of any gendered integration. She liked the power that carried.
The bartender greets Annette with little more than a scowl and a shrug, deep brown eyes looking her over with an amused distrust. "You lost?" He grunts.
"Poor name for a bar," Annette chirps back. "You only need 'King' in the title once, don't you agree?"
"What do you want?" He sighs, grabbing a pint glass from behind the counter and setting it down loudly. He keeps it notably far back from her, as though convinced she couldn't handle it.
"Searching for my owner," she taps her collar. "I suspect she was here tonight."
"Ain't that a little backwards?" His bushy brows furrow.
"In which way?"
"Aren't owners usually hunting down you pesky lot?"
"Mine is eccentric."
"Cordelia," the bartender guesses.
"The very same. Was she here tonight?"
He shrugs again. "I don't keep this job by running my mouth."
Annette glares at the glass in his large hands, still carefully tucked out of her reach. In many ways, this barkeep reminds her of a messier version of Bill from the Fleeting Faery, and the thought is mildly comforting.
"Whiskey, if you'd be so kind," she smiles.
"It's strong," he warns.
"And I'm not?"
He snorts quietly. "No."
"Whiskey," she repeats.
He turns around and fills the pint glass with the nearest cider instead, letting the golden liquid rise to the brim and foam pleasantly. He sets it onto the counter and slides it over to her.
"It's on her tab," he mutters.
Annette looks over the glass and debates fighting the issue. She hates whiskey, but she suspects he'd only talk if she was drinking and whiskey is the only drink men like him would respect. She concedes, grateful to not have to fake enjoyment of it, and takes a sip from the pint.
"I'm worried about her," Annette tells him. "She's not usually this upset."
"Didn't seem upset to me."
"So she
was
here?"
He grunts ambiguously. Annette places a neutral expression on her face, trying to read him and deduce the correct way to gather her information. It's difficult to detect if he's lying - Cordelia has hardly spoken with Annette since investigating the 8th Street Textile Factory and finding Henry's body, where Annette had yet again disappointed her. Every time the detective notes hesitancy in Annette on the job, she shuts her out until she proves herself once again. Annette figures that proactively hunting her down and dragging her out of her drunken stupor was sure to do the trick.
"What's your name?" She asks politely.
"Haggis."
"Like the food?"
He grunts.
Annette can't tell if he's joking or not, but decides to humor him. She takes a sip and asks, "Well, Mr. Haggis, I need to find her, and you're going to tell me how."
"And why would I do that?"
"Kindness of your heart?"
He chuckles and raps a knuckle on his chest. "It's all empty here."
"She could be in danger."
"Cordelia often
is
the danger."
"I could convince her to stop causing trouble here."
He shakes his head. "Her trouble brings in business."
"Is she that good of a boxer?"
"She defeated Winston last night."
"How?"
"She just did."
Annette furrows her brow. "She's strong, but the boxers are mountains of muscle. How does she defeat them?"
"She just does."
"Does she out-think them?"
"If you're thinking while boxing you're doing it wrong."
"Is she more cunning?"
"Than the heavyweights? No." He sighs. "You gonna keep bugging me?"
"Until you tell me where she went."
Haggis scowls and points a lazy finger to a well-dressed man in the corner of the bar. "Ask him."
"Who is he?"
"Just
ask
him, girl." Haggis swipes the barely-touched cider from her hands and gulps it down. He stomps it down onto the counter, waving her away from his area.
Annette shakes her head and lifts herself off of the stool, avoiding the various stares in the room as she walks. She's the only woman in the bar tonight; a thought that would be unsettling if not for the meager protections offered to collared servants. Anyone who'd dare lay a hand on her would face Cordelia's ire, and it was one of the few ways that her reputation was highly beneficial to Annette.
"I'm searching for Cordelia Jones," Annette declares, confidently strolling up to the gentleman. He's short and polished, with the air of an accountant who's definition of letting loose involved a tame night in with a drink in hand. He looks up from his book and smiles politely.
