Thinking that a beer would go down just wiz, Falcon glanced at the elf, at the beer in his hand, raised an eyebrow questioningly. Modal’s expression and body language didn’t change. He’d still rather see me flatlined. Falcon thought. Which means he’s not likely to offer me a drink. He hesitated, then crossed to the minibar and fished out his own beer. An import, he saw, in a real glass bottle. Modal was scowling fiercely, but at least he hadn’t shot him. Falcon twisted off the top, sprawled back in his chair, and gave the brew the attention it deserved.