Stamos was walking down the street and looking at her phone. Devine thought he knew what she was doing, and he headed over and unlocked his bike and slipped on his helmet.
The Uber appeared three minutes later and she got in.
Devine followed.
The Uber dropped the woman off at a bar in Greenwich Village that, on Friday night at midnight, was just starting to rock.
CHAPTER
11
SHE WAS STANDING AT THE far end of the beer-slopped bar. The place was full of young people and the occasional person over fifty trying and failing to fit in. Devine looked to be the only thirty-something there, but maybe his math was off. And he looked older than he actually was; mortal combat just did that to you.
He threaded his way through sweaty, drunk, and getting-drunk bodies that were coiling and uncoiling around him like snakes before copulation. Then he pulled up and did a swift observation.
Next to Stamos was a man holding a half-empty glass of beer. He didn’t know if the guy had arranged to meet her here, but he didn’t think so. To Devine’s mind, you didn’t have sex with your boss and then meet your boyfriend for drinks minutes later.
The guy was around six-three or so, and lean, about forty pounds lighter than the more muscular and stockier-built Devine. He was lanky, coordinated, seemed light on his feet. He looked like he had maybe played D-2 basketball or D-1 lacrosse. He was handsome in the traditional way, though he had the kind of thin blond hair that would start to disappear around age thirty and be totally gone except for a scalp rim of white or gray by fifty.
He had handsome, and haughty, patrician features, so, in his mind, Devine nicknamed him WASP.
He was dressed in stylish, expensive jeans and a white untucked shirt that hit at about his waist because of his long torso. Moccasins were on his feet. They looked warm in the heat of the room. He was inching up to Stamos, who had just ordered her drink and was waiting for it to arrive, keeping her eyes on the wooden bar.
So maybe he’s about to make his move.
Devine picked up his threading-through-the-crowd maneuver once more and arrived in the close-quarter combat space about the time WASP touched Stamos on the arm.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” he said.
She didn’t look at him. “Well, I have been here before.”
“Well, then that’s my fault for not noticing. How can I make it up to you?”
Stamos looked to the side and saw Devine shaking his head and rolling his eyes at these pathetic pickup lines. She smiled. WASP thought it was for him.
“Now there you go, that’s the smile I was hoping for.”
“Hey, Jenn,” said Devine.
WASP swiveled around and eyed him. “Hey, buddy, do you mind?”
“I do mind. Because I came here for a drink with my friend.”
WASP looked at Stamos. “Is that true, or is that a line?”
Stamos looked intrigued by this development. “It’s true.”
WASP kept his eye on her, obviously not believing this. He turned to Devine, looked him over the way guys did one another. The Can I kick the shit out of him or not? sort of dance that young men undertook, particularly when booze and women were involved.
Devine said, “My friend has had a rough day. So if you’ll excuse us?”
WASP did not look like he wanted to excuse anyone, least of all Devine. But he and his beer moved a few stools down where Devine could see more WASPs greet him, listen for a few moments, and then glare Devine’s way. It was all guy-testosterone stuff, and it could mean nothing or a lot. Only time would tell.
Devine took all this in, and then turned to Stamos as her drink came. A gin and tonic with extra lime slices, and a deuce of olives.
“I know I’ve seen you at work. You’re . . . ?” she began, picking an olive out with her fingers and biting it in half. She added sheepishly, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”
“No reason for you to. Travis Devine. Thirty-fourth floor. Newbie class. Still trying to cut it to the next level.”
She took this in, licked the gin and olive juice off her fingers. “What did you mean I was having a rough day?” she said.
“Sara Ewes? Weren’t you in the same class?”
He fingered the phone in his pocket, where the pictures and video were. Maybe more valuable than Apple and Amazon stock combined. At least to Devine.
“Yes, yes, that was awful.” She looked at his sleeve. “You got something on you.”
She pointed to the white chalk marks he’d gotten from the fingerprint powder.
Shit.
He dusted them off, watching the white particles drop to the bar floor.