And Conan told the story about Ms Alder attempt to seduce him previously on that day. Steven and Claire were doubled over with laughter, their faces flushed with amusement. Then, suddenly, Steven stopped mid-laugh, his eyes widening as he followed the gaze of someone who had just entered the bar .
"Look, Callan," Steven whispered, his voice barely a breath, as he tugged at his friend's sleeve, "that's my dream girl, but she's always with this slick type."
Conan turned to see who had captured Steven's attention. The woman, Steven's 'dream girl,' was a beauty. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing a very fair face. Her dark brown eyes sparkled with life, set off by elegantly shaped black eyebrows. Her lips, painted a brilliant red, were a striking contrast to her fair complexion. The tight-fitting red dress she wore clung to her stunning figure, highlighting her long, slender legs.
The girl was accompanied by a young man dressed impeccably in a white tuxedo with black butterfly bow tie and black shoes. His black hair was slicked back, his eyes as black as his hair. A massive, gleaming silver seal ring, worn prominently on his pinkie finger, added to his air of arrogance. He walked towards the bar with a swagger, ordering a dry martini, "Of course, with the nuts, Max," he declared to the bartender, whose name was definitely not Max.
"Hey, Max," Conan shouted from his place. "Add a portion of potatoes from me to the lady!"
The man in the tuxedo approached their table. "I can make you such troubles, such troubles," black-eyed man whispered to Conan at his ear, "that you're not just in this city, you're not going to find a place for yourself anywhere in the whole country!"
"But please!" Conan responded, his voice dripping with feigned politeness . "Feel free to sit at our table and tell me what trouble you can get me into, but my friend will entertain your lady in the meantime."
"How dare you!" he hissed, his eyes narrowed in anger .
"You're afraid?" Conan was amused.
"Me? Ellen, dance with that fool." The man snapped, gesturing towards Steven. "I'm about to show this stupid kid where the crayfish winter."
"Put on a leather jacket to be immediately accused of violence and anarchism," Steven muttered under his breath . "May I ask the fair lady for a dance please?" he bowed low and offered his dream girl an elbow. Ellen laughed and, taking Steven's hand, headed to the next hall.
"Well, skinhead, have you heard of..." the black man named the company where Callan's father worked.
"And?" Not a single muscle moved on Conan's face.
"And my old man there, you see, works, his last name is Romanov. If you perform a lot here, people will come to you who do not like that the son of the company's leading employee will be cracked down on one. You've heard of such a Winterfell?" Conan nodded. "Well. It's my old man's boss and based lad. He'll make meatballs out of you."
"Hardly," Conan shook his head. "Dad never ever beat me. And I don't think he's going to do that now, either. Especially because of such a quarrel."
Black-eyed man blurted something incomprehensible to Conan. At this point, he didn't look very smart.
"Maybe let's get acquainted," Conan stood up and bowed. "Callan Winterfell, it's Callan McJohn, or simply the son of John Winterfell."
"Timur Romanov," the stranger laughed and shook Conan's hand. "You know, I suspected from the very beginning that something wasn't right. It's too safe for you to speak up so you don't have a backing."
Conan grinned, a glint of steel appearing in his eyes. "I have something better than having a backing," Conan reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife . "I have this, much better than any other backing."
Timur glanced at the knife with a flicker of interest. "Nice," he said, tapping the blade with his finger. "Do you know how to handle it?"
In response, Conan threw his knife across the hall.