[Harry dips his head, acquiescing, maybe. If Klassje taught him anything, it's that if someone really doesn't want you knowing their name, you're usually better not hammering them for it. Not unless you absolutely have to, anyway.

Besides, he wasn't buttering this guy up: Drifter is a badass name for a cat with badass scars on their face.

He's in the process of putting out his cigarette — a quick lick of thumb and forefinger tapped against the end, like he's saving the rest for later — when Drifter opens with the next question.

Congrats, pal. You've defeated "the Expression". Harry's frowning.]

Why? D'you know a guy?

[A quick wave of the hand as if to say, "that's a joke, please don't reply to that." The hand stays up. He's pointedly not looking at Drifter.]

...Hooo.

[Drifter can't know he's tried for the low budget version of that already, can he? Surely it's not that obvious. He feels absolutely exposed. And worse, Harry can picture it, too. The void, but warmer. No sad songs in there, baby. No—

Yeah, he's just gonna barrel forward and straight up fucking lie. The pain bubbling up in his chest all the sudden needs slapping down again.]

I'd say thanks, but no thanks. The ol' conversational skills are pretty much the only reason I solved any cases up until now. [Sniff.] Sometimes you gotta talk folks down, too.

Besides, not to out myself as a karaoke god, but — [He winks, tapping his adam's apple] — I don't wanna deny people this.