Alain's nursing his coffee when Malcolm walks in. He doesn't stop, either, just drinks and watches him say his piece and put down the paper. Eyebrows climb slowly and he sets his mug down. Notes - autopsy photos, most of them - are shuffled, organized, and put away. Then he picks up the "resume," looks at it again, balls it up, and throws it in the trashcan.

"Sure as hell doesn't seem like you need one. Bravado in the right place I can respect, but right here, right now? It's just careless arrogance."

His face is cool-as-you-please, not a bit of the irritation in the words he chooses written anywhere else on him.

"Full name, age, medical conditions, weapons experience, and professional history including the types of cases you've worked on. Also, we're run by contracts, so..." He leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his chest. "We don't really do timecards. But you've gone independent before - you know the game."

Now that last part catches his interest.

"Before I forget to ask, are you human, or something else? Nothing to worry about - it's just sometimes a good thing to know."

He rubs at his jaw some. Too long since he last shaved, as usual.

"And tell me about a couple of these retrievals - any good stories, if you've got them. I'm not looking for names... I want to see what you're made of."

He is silent for a long moment. He unfolds his hands slowly, sips his coffee... considers, and speaks as he sets the mug back down.

"You'll do just fine. I'll send some minor contracts your way, mostly financial investigations for the time being... but I think I've got something big in mind, too."

A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. "We're running a few pretty big contracts right now, the content of which you may never actually see. Believe me when I tell you, they are critically important to this city. Lives depend on just how well they're carried out."

He reaches into a desk drawer and pulls out a folder, tosses it onto the desk in front of Malcolm, nodding for him to open it up. It's got a photograph of a stocky man in a black suit scowling at someone off-camera, as well as information about him and limited details of the case. "His alias is Domingo... we haven't been able to get a real name. I'm told he was quite the don back on Earth. He's moving in at the docks, around Miss B.'s old headquarters, and we're pretty sure he aims to fill in the power vacuum she left when her syndicate crumbled. We can't stick anything on him - he keeps a small posse, and they bring their weapons in from Earth. We think he deals in favors - puts people in his debt and sends them off to pawn shops to buy pieces and put holes in the people that get in old Dom's way. They're all family men, and no doubt he uses their families as blackmail... so they don't talk, and we can't prove a thing, but they've been witnessed at his restaurant and his warehouse sometimes only hours before committing murder."

He clears his throat. "First of all... are you interested? Think you can handle it? And then, I've got just one more question for you..."

"Tentative numbers," Alain replies simply, sliding over a piece of paper. Apparently security work in RhyDin can pay pretty well - not outlandishly, but comfortably. He takes another moment before he asks his question.

"Do you know a pixie by the name of Trinala?"

"Good. You two will be working together on this case."

...Maybe, on a certain level, Alain D'Mourir is actually an evil, evil man.

He almost grins at Malcolm's reaction.

"Yeah. If you need any heavy artillery - " He tosses him the S.P.I. Security Division business card. "Go here, and talk to Frank."