Good news: His contact's here. Bad news: That contact's being thrown into the street.

Lazar staggers backward out the tavern door, one massive mitt still clinging to frame. There's a whole crowd on the other side, a good five or six hands shoving (one tiny fist beating insistently somewhere above his kidneys).

"Oh, fuck off," A glance over his shoulder, to the guy in the hood. "No one needs a lett–"

That's cut off as a lucky elbow finds his jaw.