“Kale salad with balsamic dressing on the side.” Then the corner of Neil’s mouth twitched upward. “God, your face. I’m kidding. Burger and fries.”
“No tacos?”
“It’s not Tuesday.”
“It’s like you forget I’m armed.”
“What, your cane? You don’t scare me. Last week, some guy tweaked out of his mind came at me on a scene, wielding a machete.”
“Where’d he get a machete in New York City?” I asked.
“I’m gladthat’swhat you’ve focused on in this story.”
“You’re obviously okay,” I protested. “Sorry. Why didn’t you tell me last week you almost got hacked?”
I don’t pick up on the subtle body cues of most people—vision and all—but I’d had plenty of time to study Neil over the years, and I could deduce what was unspoken with him as well as I could with Calvin or my own father. The way Neil shifted, like he suddenly had no ass (Neil’s ass was perfectly fine) and the seat was the shittiest piece of furniture he’d ever sat on—there was some serious unease bubbling under the surface. “What?” I asked.
“What?” he countered.
“No repetition.”
“I’m just sitting here.”
“Are you blushing?”
“You can’t see blushes.”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
Neil frowned. “No. I amnotblushing,” he said with the sort of finality Vader had when telling Luke he was his father.
I leaned forward. “Did you meet someone?”
“I keep the same hours as Winter.”
“So you met him on the job?”
That shift again. “I didn’t—”
“You couldn’t tell me you’d nearly been butchered in the line of duty because you were… you know.” I made a circle with one hand and slid my index finger in and out.
Neil pinched the bridge of his nose and took one of those long, count-to-ten breaths. When he’d finished, he opened his eyes and looked at me again.
“Hi.”
“Why’re you late?” he asked.
“Don’t try to spin this conversation.”
Neil leaned back and smoothed his tie, saying, “The burger was fifteen dollars.”
I put my hands up. “Fine. Some customers, let’s call them Frick and Frack, stopped by the Emporium looking for a Real Gay to play tour guide.”
Neil raised one eyebrow. “The Emporium is half a dozen blocks away from a bar where patrons have sex in the bathrooms with male go-go dancers, and customers zeroed in on you for the gay experience?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re wearing mismatching loafers.”
