Sam was clearly relieved, but gave an inadvertent squeak at the term "gang". He was clearly torn between his desire to find his "satyr" and a natural desire to avoid getting involved in a gang. He blinked a few times, then took a long drink from his new glass to steady himself. "Um, ok, sure...I mean, it's safe, right? They're not going to...you know...um..." he stammered.
Inwardly, of course, he was smiling. I love this job, he thought to himself. Now, let's see if the bartender throws me a rope for clearly having bit off more than I can chew, or just throws me to the wolves. Either way, I win.