Crowley smiles; the other Crowley reminds him powerfully of himself in his younger days, and not just because of the physical resemblance. “Oh, I’m sure it’ll pick up. Pretty faces like his don’t last long in your line of work. Got to have integrity. You don’t get that bein’ pretty.” He gestures to the other Crowley’s head. “And a very fine hat never hurts.”
“Don’t make fun.” He says, touching his hat, eyes narrowing. “Now, I am hatin’ to have to be rude, but since you’re standin’ here, runnin’ your gob…I gotta ask if you’re gonna buy somethin’ from me. Time is money, love, and you’re wastin’ my time with your chatterin’, and that’s losin’ me money. I just had three John’s come up and move on, cos you’re standin’ here.” He says, looking around for any cops.
“Now, you wanna chat, you can buy me a drink and we can chat, or if you fink you want somethin’ a mite more friendly, I’ll tell you my rates.”
He chuckles to himself. “Oh don’t worry, pet. I was just passing through. Might have to take you up for that drink later, bet you’ve got some stories to tell.” He snaps his fingers and a business card appears in his hand with a flash of flame, which he hands to the other Crowley. It’s plain white with ‘Crowley, King of Hell’ written in bold black letters. “My card, if you ever need anything.” He winks and disappears to the streets.