It was just past noon at the club, and, as usual, it was pretty much deserted except from Tim. As far as anyone could tell, Tim never actually left.
The dance floor and the tables had been cleaned off from the previous night, and Tim was at the bar, drying off clean glasses and arranging them in the back, whistling to himself.
He stopped whistling, at some point, and frowned slightly as he looked over the bar, though he didn't stop what he was doing.
A tiny point of a shadow grew on the floor until it was about three feet wide, at which point a figure rose out of it as if there it was levitating through a hole in the floor. 'Figure' was a good enough name for it, too, since it seemed to be nothing more than a shadow wearing a black cloak.
Tim regarded it in silence for about five seconds.
"Nice wraith get-up," he said finally, as if he were commenting on the weather. "The Lord of the Rings try-outs are next door, though."
The cloak was apparently not amused.
"I seek the one called Crowley." It said finally, in a voice that sounded very raspy... even through that, though, the tone of annoyance was plain. "I wish to speak with him."
"Crowley? Hm... I might know somebody of the sort," Tim said slowly, setting down the glass he'd been working on. This wasn't someone from Crowley's world. He'd seen this one before, in fact, not that he was going to tell it that. "Yeah. I could call him up or something, I guess. You want to talk to him here?"
"Ah... I guess you know the rules around here? This is a neutral zone, pal, and I'll toss out anyone who gets on my nerves. Ghost, wraith, or whatever you are."
If it had eyes, it would have been glaring. "I know."
Tim was well aware of the concept of authors. He knew that Crowley would find his way here if he wanted to see what this guy wanted to say. In the meantime, he went back to drying newly-washed glasses, whistling again.