𝐍𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐄. || 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘹 𝘰𝘤

𝟎𝟓 ➻ just gravy

♛ ┇ ▒ ⋅⋅⋅ WALKER ENT. V. GREENFIELD CORP. ⋅⋅⋅ ▒ ┇♛

𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐇, swirling a straw in her mocktail with one hand and examining the business card with another. She hadn't exactly followed Rachel's advice about staying past nine on your first week, but surely Louis wouldn't admonish her for being proactive enough to hire a PI.

Mike had a hearing tomorrow on his pro bono case – something about a sexual assault allegation between a CEO and a string of female workers. Quinn had no clue that Pearson Hardman even took cases like that, and while she wished she had the time to help Mike research precedents for his hearing... she was grateful that Rachel found it within her heart to lend him a hand instead.

This bar was too expensive for her tastes, and she could smell the expensive colognes and perfumes on every person in the room. Saint Laurent handbags, Armani suits and glimmering Bulgari necklaces painted a picture of the top one percent here in the Big Apple. The world of the wealthy was a whirlwind of neutral colors and oaky scents, diamonds refracting in the dull warm light.

The worst part of it all was that Harvey Specter was here, too, talking it up with a dark-haired woman with a knowing smile and legs for days. Apparently the best private investigators in New York had a favorite place to drink. 

Or maybe it was just Harvey's investigators that had such preferences.

Quinn shook her head tightly, using her hand to shield her face from Mike's new boss, and remained in that position until someone slid into the booth opposite her, salt-and-pepper hair glistening in the light of the dim chandelier overhead. She scanned his face quickly, and he did the same to her.

His eyes were piercing gray, literal kitchen knives with how they flashed. He had a light stubble, high cheekbones, a hooked nose and tanned skin. He looked like he'd been carved from granite by a very sullen sculptor, and aside from the sharpness in his eyes, he looked like any other guy in New York. His clothing was right for the occasion, but didn't speak to anything about him. No pet hairs on his shoulders, a drab gray tie. Not even a ring on his finger.

So this was Ben Luderman.

"Trying to get a read on me?" He asked. His voice was gravelly and pointed, with a mild accent that Quinn couldn't place.

Her answer was honest. "Trying, yes."

Ben tipped his head back as a waitress came by. "One Islay single malt scotch, please."

The waitress nodded, and Quinn took a sip of her non-alcoholic drink. Ben made quick note of it. "Not a drinker?"

Quinn pushed her drink aside and pulled a file out of her black purse and slid it over to Ben. He stopped it with two fingers and let it sit there. "Not right now, Whitaker. Let's get to know each other first."

"Right, okay," Quinn shifted uneasily, her fingers starting to drum on her leg again. "You want to know if I'm trustworthy?"

"Nah," Luderman chuckled. He placed his elbows on the table and steepled his hands. "Nobody's trustworthy in this business. Especially rookie associates like you."

"So what exactly do you want to know?"

"Are you a cat or a dog person?" Luderman inquired, and for the first time, surprise pinched Quinn's brow.

"Dog person," Quinn muttered. "I've got a blue staffy at home."

Luderman nodded like this answer was satisfactory. "Man's best friend. Reliable and affectionate, and they give without expecting much in return. Food, water, shelter."