Green did not normally turn up to the Four Seasons. It was a little too upmarket for him and he just didn't fancy walking into such a fragile looking place when he knew he still lacked a sense of spatial awareness. On this night, however, he did: dressed in a crisp new blue shirt, jeans and scuffed old work boots. He had even combed his hair and beard into a semblance of civility (with respect to Mr. Bates).
Standing by the bar, the mountain ordered a Guineas. He didn't know how long he'd be waiting, or even if his message had been received. Rather than plough through beer or whisky, as he'd normally do, he toyed with the stout. The heavy drink had to be taken slow, and slow was what he needed to draw out the night.