"Olá, Tequila Sunset, boiadeiro grande!" He looks at you with soft and hazy eyes.

"There's no rush to find yourself."

"Of course! It's such a cool name. Solemn, classy, historical... almost regal."

"It's... umm... Harry."

"I hear you and it's... uh, pleasure meeting you, Harry." He nods. "But do keep an eye out for an alternative, alright?"

"I'm actually a worker, like you guys!" (Show him the stolen card.)

The man looks at the colourful piece of plastic, then at you, then back at the card, then at you again.

"That's a good one. But I know you're not a dockworker. I even gave you that key to the weasel den, remember?" He raises his flask. "Now how can I help you?"

"Umm..." He looks at his flask for a moment. "But that's not you, officer?"

(Take a close look at the card.) "Guess not."

"Good thing too. I've known Johannes for a few years now, be sinister if he turned into a completely different person overnight."

He leans in to inspect the card. "How did you get his shift card anyway?"

Now you're in a mess. The time hath not arrived. Sorry.

"I found it on the ground. At the Whirling-in-Rags."

"Oh, John's been out drinking himself blind again? He should watch his step, that John. Can I have the card?"

No. It will prove useful still, believe your thieving fingers.

"Sure, I have no real need for it."

"Thank you plenty. I'll make sure John gets his card back."

"You're quite the righteous man." He smiles appreciatively. "Honour allows us to keep a respectful distance from each other. So, what do you need?"

You feel like you earned a significant amount of honour points today.

"No, I need to continue my undercover infiltration of this compound. Otherwise it's as if I just stole the card for no reason."

"Oh, okay. Good luck with that." He tips his beret. "So, what do you need?"

"No, I'm afraid. The card's evidence in an on-going investigation."

"Oh, is my friend in some sort of trouble? Who knew..."

"I literally stole it off him while he slept."

"It was like a sign, the wind deposited it before my feet. I feel a closeness to this person."

"Yes," he nods solemnly. "The city has a way of pairing souls. John's been out drinking himself blind..."

"He should be more careful, that Johannes. Can I have the card?"

"It's an old picture."

"From back when you were not a cop, but a heavy-set dark-skinned dockworker named Santiago John?"

"Does not seem plausible, now that I think of it."

"Yes, and you also told me you're a cop. But now that this is settled..." He leans in to inspect the card. "How did you get his shift card?"

"Yes."

"Highly unlikely. I've known John for several years now. Also, you told me you're a cop, remember? How did you get his shift card?"

He can't know that. Maybe you're just younger on the photo.

"Nice talk. Gotta get moving." [Leave.]

"Any idea who killed the hanged man?"

"The mercenary, aye?" He shrugs. "Who could have killed him, that's indeed the question. Why even do such a thing?" He shakes his head solemnly.

"Evrart says Titus Hardie and his boys killed him."

"That so?" The man twirls his moustache around his finger. "I haven't heard anything about that. But if that's true... well, he was an enemy combatant."

"Did you kill him?"

"I ain't the murderin' type. But that's just me. Large organizations like our Union have all sorts of men -- with all sorts of skills."

He believes the Hardie boys could've done it.

"Understood." The lieutenant takes a note. "This has been of limited use -- still, thank you."

"No problem. I wish the best to you in your search. Sure am glad it's not my search..." He takes a sip from his flask.

"Thank you -- this has been of limited use."

He's not lying -- about not doing it himself.

He means -- a more violent faction could easily take care of such a thing.

"Hold up, what does that mean?"

"He was an agent of the opposition, attempting to undermine our honourable efforts."

"The harbour is a prime area of suspicion. In your opinion -- are the dockworkers involved in the killing?"

"What a thought!" He scoffs, looking shocked. "Why would noble workers resort to such a thing. Unless they were pushed, of course."

"Pushed how?"

"Your dead guy -- was an enemy combatant."

"The merc was hanged with a very specific type of a cargo belt. One often used in heavy transport areas, for example, harbours."

"Let's change the topic."

The man whispers a jaunty tune. A coastal breeze ruffles his hair.

"Evrart said you have a key to a door?"

"A key, huh?" He runs his fingers through his moustache. "What door is this key supposed to open?"

"He said it belonged to a weasel."

"Oh, say no more. I got you." He taps the side of his nose with a little wink.