Sunday night. Trip and Mowgli have to wait until the day after viewing the pictures and discs because they needed to do some prep work. This is not a situation that they want to walk into without carefully planning what they’re going to do. Both recognize the volatile nature of what they’re about to do and want to try to account for all the ways things could go wrong. Neither of them will admit to nerves, but they both know that the odds against the two of them are infinite. The only thing on their side is that they have the element of surprise. As long as they hadn’t known who was in charge of the whole operation, they had been at the mercy of the assholes. Now, the worm has turn, and the hunters have become dead meat. They work in grim silence, not wanting to jinx the expedition with needless verbiage. Once in awhile, Mowgli would start to say something only to be cut off by a glare from Trip. She is used to working solo, and it’s bothering her to have to rely on someone else, even if it’s Mowgli. Finally, it’s time.
Trip plays a version of a con to find out where O’Reilly is—she has Mowgli call him on his cell phone, pretending to need a lawyer, panicked. At first, O’Reilly doesn’t want to talk to Mowgli, but Mowgli manages to convey the urgency of his situation. He accomplishes this by sheer volume—O’Reilly finally decides to talk to Mowgli simply because it’s the most expedient way of getting Mowgli off the phone. After Mowgli babbles for ten minutes about some made-up legal situation, he manages to finagle where O’Reilly will be and elicits O’Reilly promise to meet Mowgli for ten minutes. As she might have guessed, O’Reilly will be at his—and Andretti’s—favorite watering hole—Tosca’s. It’s not Trip’s sort of place, but she’s willing to put up with it if it nets her what she wants—O’Reilly. Of course, Mowgli gives O’Reilly a fake name and of course, Mowgli isn’t going to show up, but O’Reilly doesn’t know that. Mowgli and Trip high-five after Mowgli hangs up the phone.
For the occasion, Trip is wearing the shortest white leather mini-skirt she has, a bright purple leather halter top that securely covers her tattoo, thigh-high leather boots the exact same shade as her top with three-inch heels and a long, white leather trench coat. She also has on elbow-length gloves the same color as her boots and halter top. It is a look that worked well for her when she was on the streets and by the admiring glances she’s garnering at Tosca’s, it’s still a look that works well. She’s wearing the platinum wig, but has made up her face—read, her eyes—to look ‘extra-Oriental’ just for O’Reilly. The only thing marring her look is the oversized plum-colored bag she’s toting, but it’s a necessity. She is confident that she looks nothing like her normal self nor the other self that shadowed O’Reilly the other day into this very bar. To prove her point, she smiles widely at Seamus who is working the bar and obviously doesn’t recognize her.
“Wow, aren’t you the vision now,” Seamus grins at her, discreetly checking her out. “What’ll you be having to drink, darlin’? First one on the house.” Trip is at the end of the bar nearest the door whereas O’Reilly is at the far end, drinking what looks to be a martini with three olives.
“White Russian,” Trip says in a little-girl’s voice. She bats her eyelashes at Seamus who is loving her performance. The healthy dose of cleavage doesn’t hurt.
“Aw, darlin’, you don’t be wanting that,” Seamus cajoles her. “How about a Irish coffee? It’s what we’re famous for, you know. And I, being Irish, make it the best of anyone.”
“Why not?” Trip coos, tilting her head to the side.
“What’s a girl like you doing by your lonesome? I’d think the boys would be busting down your door.” Even though there are Irish coffees lined up on the bar, Seamus ignores them to make one fresh. He places it in front of Trip with a flourish.
“Sometimes, a girl just wants to be alone, you know?” Trip says, sipping daintily from the Irish coffee. “I love boys, don’t get me wrong, but it’s nice just to be.”