“Some screwball tried to build it bulletproof but got indicted before he could open. Guy named Farrell, I think, built funds out of a mini-mall branch and meant for this to be a more seemly location. Feds never moved in and Tony got it for a song, remodeled. Double shutters, by the way, inner and outer.” This last he said directly to Osmond, like: See, you want information, you come to me.

It was true; Tony’s was a patently defensible place, though no one had ever given it much thought until today. Maybe a joke now and again, a drunken remark or a jab at the drink prices being higher than even Hollydale. Not that Miles or Osmond would know that. It was one thing to be able to afford to be a regular at Tony’s, quite another to be a member of Hollydale. Rudd glanced out the window by way of following his over-the-shoulder gesture toward the security shutters and happened to see Fenton’s cream-colored Lexus making a U-turn in pursuit of a parking place. No valets at this hour. No cops with the time to bust you for a U-turn at this moment. C’mon, lighten up.

Miles, inspecting his Pernod as if it were an Erlenmeyer flask, taunted, “You been researching this, Rudd? That why you’re here on such a volatile afternoon?”

But Rudd barely heard him, or didn’t want to. Enough was enough, and now that Fenton was about to walk through the door Rudd wanted to suspend the conversation, such as it was, rather than waste a possible witty retort (something might come up) without his friend here to witness it. Not now, not when he was so close. Might be something good, really good, something worth repeating at the club tomorrow. Fenton would cajole him to repeat it and Rudd could demur until whomever they were with joined the course and he finally, coyly, condescended. “I’m here every day,” he said, and once again he regretted speaking too soon, for this sounded too defensive.

He swiveled his stool fully toward the door, preemptively, placing his elbows on the bar behind him.

Fenton walked in. “Found it!” he announced, rather blithely Rudd thought, and it occurred to Rudd that Fenton probably believed everything he told him.

“I had no doubt,” he said, brightening immediately, infected with his own optimism like catching back your own cold. These clods at the bar really had him going. “Grab a stool. We’re comparing penis size.” Something Fenton would say, so naturally Rudd had picked up the habit of saying such things to Fenton, or even just around him.

Fenton was well aware of the dynamic of their relationship, and he was sensitive to it. Though there were seats available on either side of Rudd, he elected to sit on the far side of the large man to Rudd’s left. This would more effectively distribute the conversational group. For no reason he thought of silverware, napkins, his sister’s wedding, and buying a second tuxedo. “Hi, I’m Fenton,” he said, extending his hand to the large man.

“Give me a damn second for chrissake,” Rudd jumped in. “Fenton, Osmond,” finger, tocking, this man, that man. “Miles,” he added via thumb over shoulder. “What are ya’ drinking, Fenton?”

The bartender, already there, looked at Rudd with a jackass smile. Rudd always tipped well, and the bartender wanted to say something familiar and facetious like, You want to come back here and pour it too? but fuck it, he thought.

Rudd drained his drink. Remembering, he said, “I was just about to order–” He had to let it go; he couldn’t very well yell a lie across the room. He had expected Fenton to sit next to him; then he could have muttered quick and low, a second.

“We got anything but Colt 45 malt liquor,” Miles put in.

“You gotta loot a liquor store if you want that.”

“Perrier’s fine to start,” Fenton said more to Miles than the bartender, spotting right away that the latter was enough of a pro to respond to light neglect, to take it as a code for a nice tip in exchange for straight service, and that the former, likewise, would respond to a lick of attention, sycophancy even.