“OK,” she says. It is jumpy, when something goes exactly according to plan. They will be, they are latched together, she and this titan of industry, another quick deal in this town, in it for the money, and good for business, she knows, for a glossy newcomer to have on his arm a local girl from a good, Padgett guesses is the word, family. Not to say they aren’t excited for each other anyway. She wants him. The car carries her, still crying, up, up, to where he lives, high above most low places, like debt-teetering bars. Martin, outside, is cold and his arms are uncomfortable. He forgot to hold his shirt cuffs when he put on his sweater, something he learned when he was a little boy. He breathes for a minute before his phone chimes in. All the smoky rum suggests that it has been a good day, although it hasn’t. So he picks up without looking.

“Hello?”

“Tell me what you see in her.”

He looks back at the bar. “Give me a break, Stanford.”

“Because I was looking at this coffee-table book about train wrecks—”

“Stop.”

“Bay Area Rapid Transit already took your shoe. Is it going to rip up your sleeve, which in your case, has your heart—”

“Don’t make me come in there.”

“Here where you work? Perish the thought. That girl, Martin, is going straight downhill.”

“Even downhill has an uphill side,” Martin says hopefully. “Look, I’ve never dated a crazy person before.”

“That’s true,” Stanford says, with a short laugh and an “Any particular vodka?” to someone inside asking for a Greyhound. “You usually ruin women. This woman will ruin herself. This is not a step up.”

“If something awful was going to happen to her,” Martin says, “it would have happened already.”

“How did you reach that conclusion?”

“Like everybody does, by totally believing it. Look, my bulbs have burned out a little lately. She’s flash. You know? An open door on a quiet block.”

“You know you’re describing our bar.”

Martin hangs up and walks in.

“Martin!” Stanford says, like a long-lost something. He has coffee for him, hands it over. “Do me a favor and sober up. It’s too early for you to be this sloppy.”

Martin sips and frowns and joins Stanford behind the bar. “This is all easy for you to say. Gay men can cat around all the time. The most hideous homo in the world can have a sex life gorgeous straight men can only dream of.” He sips and grimaces into the cup.

Stanford’s eyes blink once. “I bet, if you put your mind to it, you could think of some drawback in the life of a gay black man.”

“OK, yes, sorry, but support your comrade in his romantic journey. She has money. Plus, she’s crazy about me.”

“You’re half right, dude.”