[criminales doesn't have the best assortment of beer and spirits known to man, but they do the job. the lady definitely looks like she could use something that's a little smoother going down than the beer that she's currently sporting. which is why mick reaches for the private stash, because he owns the place and if he wants to serve the lady something that's off the menu, why he will do as he damn well pleases.

it's a bottle of whiskey, light amber in color, not unlike one he'd shared with a dear old friend after a job nearly gone wrong. mick unscrews the cap and pours two healthy glasses. no drinking on the job is for the staff. call it owner's privilege. he nudges one to her before he takes a sip of his own.]

There you go. It's not every day that a woman walks up to my bar alone. If you feel like telling me a story, I'll be happy to pretend to listen. [it might not be the nicest statement ever made by a bartender, but at least he's being honest here about being awful company when it comes to currying for sympathy and those late night conversations with the man who serves you drinks for a nominal fee.]