Raylan draws one hand back to rest on his belt, two fingers brushing the edge of his star. He holds his jacket back just enough to show the badge off to anyone who might look their way. "No, I think we're good here. Let his known associates see him chatting with the Fed, save myself a bruised knuckle or two on his thick skull."

He smiles at the kid. "What do you think?"

"Fuck fuck - okay, all right, Marcone is probably at this fitness club, really exclusive, that he owns downtown. The other guy, Dresden..." There's a long pause, like he's still not sure he should be saying any of this. "I've heard he likes to hang out at this freak bar, some place can Anals or Flannelly's or something."

"...Anals." Raylan massages the bridge of his nose.

"I don't know, something Irish!"

"Something Irish, in Chicago." He taps one finger against his badge, getting impatient now.

"I think it's... It's like Mac-something, okay? That's all I know! I swear to Christ that's it."

Raylan waits a moment, then brushes the brim of his hat with two fingers and steps back. He lets his jacket fall back and cover the star again. "There now. That wasn't so hard." He glances at Lia and gestures down the block. "If you'll excuse me, I need to go look for a 'freak bar called MacFlannelly's."

He's being sarcastic. It's kind of hard to tell.