The staff room turned out to be a pair of desks pushed up against the wall, a card table with aluminum banding, and a bean bag that, honest to God, Somers was pretty sure had survived the 1970s. Connie set the sandwich on the table, and Somers took a seat, thumping the water and soda down next to him. Connie raised an eyebrow.

“I’m going to pay,” Somers said as he twisted the cap off the Aquafina. Then he drank half of it in one go.

“Ok,” Connie said, stretching, popping his back, playing with his short, stiff twists of hair. “You want to tell me?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. You want to tell me?”

“A couple of guys have said you’ve got drugs you’re trying to move.”

Somers picked up the meatball sub: the bread was toasty, the cheese was golden, the meatballs were veal and pork and sausage. But it was the sauce. Italian grandmothers, good goddamn luck. Dill and Connie’s red sauce was the best thing he’d ever tasted. Between bites, he said, “Drugs?”

“Dope. Which, for your white ass, means heroin.”

Somers rolled his eyes and took another huge bite.

“You’re going to make yourself sick. Drinking all that water and eating like that. You’re going to explode.”

“I’ll risk it,” Somers said around a mouthful of veal.

“You’re nasty.”

“But you missed me,” Somers said after swallowing, and then he wiped his mouth.

Connie rolled his eyes again. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, but you can’t hide out here.”

“I know. I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t. Don’t make that face.”

“You hid out here when the Marquez brothers were looking for you.”

“I was young,” Somers said and took another huge bite.

“Your balls hadn’t dropped.”

“My balls have now officially dropped.” He chewed, swallowed, and said, “I just need a few things.”

Connie rolled a finger.

“Phone.”

Connie pointed at one of the desks.

“Shoe polish.”

Connie blinked.

“I’m kind of, you know, noticeable.”

“Do not tell me your stupid, stupid ass is thinking about—”

“No, no. For my hair. The clothes are helping.”

“That big string of mozzarella on your chin is helping.”

“But I need something for my hair.”

“How did you get into college? Good Lord, you are stupid sometimes.”

“But you missed me,” Somers said with another grin. He dove back into the meatball sub.

“Nasty,” Connie repeated as he stood. “Stay here.”

Somers had finished the sub and, although he wouldn’t give Connie the satisfaction of admitting it, was feeling a little bit nasty. All the water and then the huge sub might have been a bit too much. He eyed the pile of sauce and bread and toasty cheese, which was kind of a bonus treat, and considered whether he could manage it. Maybe a few bites—

“No,” Connie said, picking up the tray, and shaking the paper basket into the trash.

“That was the best part!”

“The best part is the meatball sandwich, dumbass.” Connie slapped a box onto the table. Under the dust, the words REVLON COLORSILK stared back at Somers, and below those words, a lady was having way too much fun smiling and tossing her hair and really making a whole production out of it. “Do not use shoe polish on your hair.”