He’s at Blue Fin on Broadway and 47th Street, surrounded by an attractive after-work, pre-curtain crowd that’s snug in the all-glass corner bar with its view of Times Square. The music is trip–hip hop and loud. He’s alone, dressed smartly in a dark gray, four-button suit with an open-collared blue shirt. His shoes are polished and his cuff links shine in the twilight. He nods to the bartender, an anorexic Asian woman with jet black hair that descends straight to her ass like one of those Caribbean waterfalls. He takes a sip and moves off to find a place to sit. Ryan is both tired and invigorated. Tired because of an all-day meeting across town he’s just returned from. Invigorated because he’s finally done, it’s Friday, and he decided on the spur of the moment to extend his time here in New York—at least for another night. He has nothing to go home to, so why not? He’d pulled off his tie, ran some water over his face, and came here. The night is young, and New York City always makes him tingle with that special something—as if all the energy from outside the pane is being infused into his veins this very instant.
