Once Sherlock lit his own cigarette, his first drag was slow and indulgent, and he breathed any smoke that escapes from his mouth right back through his nose. Holding the burn in his lungs was preferable to having to speak in that bloody accent again. He was totally dedicated to remaining in character, but that didn't stop the sound of his own distorted voice from grating on his nerves.

"There's cheaper stuff, too. Superhero trinkets, framed wanted posters. Some of it's kinda tasteless, but I guess the guy's gotta make a buck, you know?" He takes another deep breath.

"Well, you have kinda been pulling a Salinger forever. It's not like people outside the City know much about it. But I couldn't tell you. It's up in the Bronx, and I never have much excuse to be up that way." Sherlock lowers his cigarette and looks Maskin square in the eye.

"Ever want to talk to a real import, though? That guy might have a few leads. But you didn't hear it from me."

It was a risk letting that slip. If Maskin wasn't Mitch, Sherlock may have just compromised a safe house he used to keep in touch with his resistance contacts. Fortunately, gambles were all the rage in import life these days.