[He sighs, irritated, but he doesn't treat Caspar to a blistering shove it up your arse and never order me around again type response. It's still all there in the sigh. Caspar will be able to tell.]

Same street. Five blocks, then a right. The warehouse behind the dye shop. [And--] I don't like-- mixing. Or Marisol conspiring, which would be fucking inevitable.