Chapter 4

The bow tie felt like a noose as Ezra knotted it. Two loops, half-turn, tug.

The tux was technically a rental. Company perks. Stiff at the shoulders, too much shimmering under the light. He adjusted the cuffs, smoothed the front and stared at the man blinking back at him from the mirror. You could almost believe he belonged.

He stared, examining himself until his reverie was interrupted by the chirp of his car's arrival.

The ride dragged on, though it took little time. Ezra spent it split between glancing at the skyline and a watch that refused to move fast enough for him. The way the buildings cut into the night like broken glass, reflecting the city back onto itself. Somewhere past the refractions, under the sheen, countless people were living countless lives. They buzzed quietly until they all came together.

The hall was already thrumming when he arrived. Crystal and brass, too many chandeliers, laughter spiking sharp through the low bass of the live band. Elevator jazz, exactly as you'd expect. Name tags glinted, pinned to expensive jackets. Everyone smelled of leather and citrus, booze and ambition. The space felt smaller than it looked.

Ezra moved through it like a man underwater, every conversation a ripple he disturbed without meaning to.

Clusters of people orbited the open bars, laughing with affectation, flashing teeth polished for the occasion. Teeth polished for any occasion.

Men gripped each other's shoulders in practiced fraternity.

Women tilted their heads at angles just shy of predatory.

The whole place held a restless hunger. Not for food, not for drink, but for recognition and maybe even acceptance.

Ezra took ahold of a drink he didn't want to need, from a server he didn't want to ignore. The glass condensed against his palm.

He didn't drink it, he absorbed it. Up to his lips and back down, the way you display a prop when you can't think of your next line.

Conversations eddied around him, fragments brushing against his ears:

"...quarterly numbers are up, but the payout ratios…"

"...first in line for the next round of promotions..."

"...new compliance protocols, just cover your ass, that's all I'm saying..."

Words like bricks, building wall after wall. Segregating their selves from the risk. Desperate attempts at managing exposure.

Ezra smiled when appropriate. Nodded when required.

Inside, the sense of wrongness grew. How had he ever felt at place here.

A shadow of a figure caught his eye. Something about the curls of her hair, the curve of her spine. It snagged him for just a second. A reminder of…

He turned away before he could think too hard about it.

The band shifted into a new song, indistinguishable from the last.

Another nameless waiter walked past. Another glass was both the cure and the cause of the rot.

Ezra drifted toward the edges of the room, orbiting the crowd without entering it. A few familiar faces floated past. There were half-remembered coworkers, vendors from conferences, people he only knew by their knowledge of him. How did they remember, how little else was in there that details of his holiday two years ago still had space in their minds.

Finally, a face he cared for. Tommy Hodge.

Tommy was one of the mid-tier account managers, the kind of guy who wore networking like a second skin. Always a drink ahead of the room, always laughing a half-second too loud.

He was neither dangerous nor clean. Ezra caught his eye with a nod.

Tommy peeled away from his group and clapped him on the back.

"Calloway! Shit, man, how long's it been?"

Ezra relaxed long enough to let a half smile bloom, "Too long."

Tommy leaned in, the stink of scotch and too-sweet cologne blooming off him. "You still in claims?"

"Still kicking."

Tommy laughed his practiced bark. "Glamorous life."

Ezra chuckled, letting the silence stretch around them just long enough to make Tommy shift on his feet.

"So what are you working on now?" Tommy asked, aware that he needed to bring his own momentum.

The phone call, Kemp. The car dealership. The apartment. Everything. All these loose threads that Ezra desperately wanted to weave together flashed through his mind.

"Funny you should ask, I came across this file that's got me scratching my head. Does the name Global Motors mean anything to you?"

Tommy placed a look of feigned disdain on his face. "Watch yourself with those used dealerships," he said. "Whole network of weird shit tied up in those. People you don't want to owe favors to."

Ezra's pulse kicked up against his throat, but he kept his expression flat.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a shift. A man leaning against the bar, ears perked from something in their conversation. Staring with his ears instead of his eyes.

Tommy followed Ezra's glance and chuckled under his breath. "You make enough noise," he muttered, "they notice. You make the wrong kind of noise..." He let the sentence trail off, grinning like it was a joke.

"Hmm, thanks." Ezra caught Tommy looking past his shoulder to see whose attention he next needed to grab. "I'll let you get back to the gladhanding, I'm stepping outside for some air. It was good to see you though."

"Yeah, same. Let's get some lunch sometime. You're good with… with everything else?"

"As best as I can be. I'll pencil you in for next week," he said, knowing they both knew he was lying.

As they parted ways and Ezra walked towards the balcony, he could feel the man at the bar move behind him.

Stepping out through the doors, the weight lifted. No more stale stench of stuffed suits, just air that came close to fresh. Ezra pulled a pack out of his breast pocket, a lighter out of his pants. Three strikes for the flame to catch, and he took a drag, leaned against the railing. The smoke settled into his body, the way his thoughts refused to.

Behind him, through the thick glass, the party kept writhing. Ezra exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift out, becoming a part of the city's atmosphere.

Footsteps from behind, hard with an uneven pace. Like the walker's weight was permanently shifted to one side. He didn't look.

The man from the bar settled into the space beside him. Not too close, not too far. He was older, heavyset, with a jacket that showed his station. Well worn, not tailored in.

For a moment they just stood there. Two men sharing the scenery.

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't help overhear you mention Global Motors," the man said, voice low, almost friendly.

Ezra took another drag, flicked ash into the night.

"That's right," he said.

The man chuckled under his breath, like an inside joke only he knew.

"I worked that claim."

Ezra finally glanced sideways. The man wasn't looking at him, only out into the expanse. The lines of his face were soft. He had the look of someone who had learned the value of keeping their head down.

"What do you know about it?" Ezra asked.

A shrug. "Just account numbers, where the checks got sent."

Ezra let the silence stretch.

The man reached into his jacket and pulled out a book of matches. Pinched between two fingers, he handed them to Ezra

The Black Sheep

742 S 17th St

"Good for a drink," the man said. "Help you take the edge off."

Ezra turned it over once, then dropped it in his pocket.

When he looked up, the man was already moving away. Back through the door, into the heat and noise.

His attention returned to the cityscape. When the cigarette burned down to his fingers, the sharp sensation brought him back to now.