At the bar, I stuck close to Gordon Stone, the magazine’s literary editor. He was originally from Atlanta but had been working at the London Review of Books when Mort poached him for the Bystander. Tonight he wore a jet-black suit and lavender tuxedo shoes, his feet dangling from his perch on the barstool.

“Why on earth have you gone into investigative journalism?” he asked, gently swirling Scotch. “You had the best job in the world. You could lounge in the most comfortable chair in your apartment and get paid to read a novel. Now you’re out god knows where, digging into who knows what. It’ll age you.”

“Haven’t you ever wanted to do something a little more serious?”

“Someone has to be the chocolatier. Anyway, it’s a question of character. Journalists are a mean-spirited folk, haven’t you noticed? Angry, tremendously angry. They spend their whole lives avenging some primal wound to their ego. Everything is subordinate to their vengeance, which they exact on the grandest possible scale. Heads must roll—yours, mine, anyone’s. They don’t think twice about collateral damage. Just take Mr. Calvin over there. You know, he has two sets of children on two different continents, locked up in finishing schools so they won’t interfere with his vendettas.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him you said that.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Lane sipped IPA at the end of the bar, watching the rest of us with a smile that painfully bunched the skin around his eyes. Every time my glance wandered his way, I could feel those eyes cling to me, so I stared at Gordon and nodded even when he wasn’t talking. I resented how male desire becomes a center of gravity in a room, something you’re forced to deal with, like a foundling on your doorstep.

Eventually, Lane put his glass down and started working his way toward me. I quickly told Gordon about his crush.

“The fact-checker?”

“Yes.”

“But he’s adorable,” he said. “Why don’t you throw him a bone?”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I suppose he’s more my type. I like little fat boys.”

But Lane didn’t make it. Mort had slipped out by now and everyone had gathered at the bar, including Richard Calvin. I’ll never know exactly how it happened, but somehow—perhaps because his eyes were trained on me—Lane bumped into his nemesis. Beer flowed over the lip of Calvin’s pint glass and dripped down his shirt, and the reporter, totally blasted, smashed the glass down on the floor. The pint exploded, shards flushed out in all directions.

“You prick,” he said. He grabbed Lane’s shirt. I think he got a handful of chest hair. “You know-nothing little prick. Come outside.”

“No.”

“Outside.”

“I’m sorry about the story,” Lane tried.