Page 30 of A Friend in the Glass

It turned out there was not one but two Starbucks inside the Javits. Because of course there were. Because it was fucking New York. The second-floor Starbucks was thronged by men and women in hipsterish gear: layers of sweaters and scarves and obnoxiously orange vests. One of them, with a ratty beard, was proclaiming loudly that he was only drinking the coffee because it would take too long to walk to an environmentally friendly, locally owned coffee shop, which he preferred to support because of the ethical concerns—

At which point, Sam stopped listening.

“I think we found the Habitat for Halibut crowd,” he said, and then he pushed a long-haired guy in a distressed leather jacket out of his way and headed for the escalators.

The third-floor Starbucks was overrun by corporate types, but not the kind who were thronging the defense-contractor convention. For one thing, there were more women in this crowd. For another, although many of them were obviously proud of how expensive their clothes were, they were all dressed down compared to the defense executives—instead of suits and skirts, polos and khakis. A pair of generously endowed young women pranced past Sam and Rufus. They had been squeezed into tight pink t-shirts that said JUGHEADS, and the six-inch heels brought both of them to Sam’s height. One of them was asking about supplier restrictions and bulk-order discounts.

“And here we have the franchise expo,” Sam muttered. “Where the fuck is she?”

“Maybe she’s moved on to day drinking,” Rufus answered in a distracted manner. He was watching the women walk away. Heput his hands to his chest and asked, “How’d they get into those shirts? It’s like stuffing ten pounds of shit into a five-pound bag.”

“Good Lord,” Sam said and, of course, had to look again.

The Javits bar was on the ground floor. Like the rest of the convention center, it had a sleek, modern design: glass and stainless steel, pale woods and glowing polished-aggregate concrete. The crowd was smaller, although the hostess who passed them near the door had rings of sweat under her arms and slowed only long enough to wave them in, a gesture that Sam guessed meant “any open seat.” The defense types seemed to dominate the day-drinking crowd. No sign of Evangeline.

Sam stepped aside to let a couple of older men in suits pass. “Motherfucker,” he growled.

Rufus tapped Sam’s arm and inclined his chin toward a high top at the midpoint between the bar and the booths against the wall. “There’s that dumbass who was talking to Evangeline’s chest this morning.”

Sure enough, the young man whom Evangeline had called Anson was trying to strike up a conversation with an impeccably put-together blonde in a navy suit. Anson clearly had no idea that the woman was out of his league. He also didn’t seem to be aware that women’s ears were not co-located with their nipples. While Sam watched, the woman slid out of her seat, collected a small purse, said something with a smile that made Anson flinch and lean back in his chair, and clicked away on her heels. Anson made a delayed expression of outrage. Something about his hair and suit suggested, to Sam, anyway, Dartmouth. And lots of masturbation.

“God bless America,” Sam said. “Come on. This asshole is going to get us Evangeline.”

Rufus took the lead, winding his way through the tables and crowds. He came to a stop behind Anson, took a big step to the right, and then plopped his elbows on the tabletop. “Hey, bud.” He glanced in the direction the blonde had gone and then gave Anson a nudge. “Win some, lose some, eh?”

“Excuse me?” Anson asked.

“She’s out of your league,” Rufus explained. “But hey, she’s outta mine too. Don’t get so worked up.”

“Um, who are you?”

“Your new wingman,” Rufus answered, giving Anson a second nudge. “Tip number one, stop looking at their boobs. It’s too obvious. Go for the throat. That way you can do a quick flick up and down. It’s less noticeable.”

“Yeah, ok, whatever.” Anson squirmed to the edge of his seat.

Sam shook his head and said, “No.”

Anson sank back into his chair. He didn’t exactly gulp, but he did get a little cheese-faced. He looked at Sam. Then he looked at Rufus. “I don’t—I’m just having a drink, ok? I don’t know what you want.”

“Calm down, dude.” Rufus smiled again. “I’m just trying to help you out. You know who I think would be perfect for you? Evangeline Ridgeway. D’you know her?”

Music came on the bar’s speakers. It was something poppy, and Sam didn’t recognize it. Anson flinched at the sudden rush of sound. Then he contorted himself, trying to look past Sam toward the bar’s exit.

“Focus,” Sam told him.

“Yeah, like, I know her.” Anson seemed to think about this and added, “Or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Rufus repeated with a knowing grin. “How about you give her a call? A text? I bet you’ve got her business card, right? I bet that was the first thing you asked for.”

“Uh, she airdropped me her contact info.” Anson didn’t exactly addduh, but it was clearly a struggle.

Rufus said to Sam, “Now he’s just showing off.” Looking at Anson again, Rufus said, “Go ahead and use that technology. Give her a call. Comeon.” He drew out “on” in a bro-ish attitude.

“I don’t think—I think I’m going to go.”

Sam made an interested noise and leaned forward, elbows on the back of the recently vacated chair.

This time, Anson did gulp. He pulled out his phone, glanced at Rufus—who was watching the screen—and tapped out a message. A moment later, his phone chimed.

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