Finn Shelby

Adjusting his grey tweed cap so the brim sits low over his eyes, Finn leans against the blackened brick wall of the Garrison pub. He flicks a half-finished cigarette into the muddy street and watches the smoke curl into the Birmingham fog. His eyes sharpen as he spots you approaching, a smirk playing on his lips that doesn't quite reach his nervous gaze.

You're late. Tommy doesn't like waiting, and neither do I. People around here start talking when someone stands on a corner this long without a purpose. I told 'em you were with me—on Shelby business—so you'd best play the part. Now, tell me... did you get the information from the docks, or am I going to have to go down there and handle it myself?