“Love you, Dad.”

“How could you help it, son?”

The nice thing about Irish coffee, Neal thought, was that it kept your body awake but put your mind to sleep. He sat back and let the warmth spread through him. Eight or ten more of these might make the trip almost bearable. The train lurched forward.

“Wakey, wakey.”

“We there already?”

“Not quite. You have to get cleaned up.”

Graham was leaning over him. Clean-shaven, straight tie, eyes clear, and breath fresh. Neal hated Graham.

“I brought you an extra razor.”

Sure enough, Graham had brought two cordless electric shavers with him; also a lint brush, Visine, and Cepacol. Neal hauled himself and his kit into the rest room and got himself into shape. He felt like shit and was surprised to feel butterflies in his stomach. In almost twelve years of working for Friends, this would be the first time he would meet The Man. And The Man had more or less run his life so far.

“Why,” he asked Graham when he returned to his seat, “is this the first time I meet The Man?”

“No need.”

“And there’s a need now?”

“You look good, son. Straighten your tie.”

Levine waited for them at the platform. Levine was six-three and at thirty-one beginning to thicken around the middle. He had curly black hair, blue eyes, and a face that was just a couple of six-packs this side of fat. His heavily muscled body didn’t begin to hint at his speed. Levine was cat-quick, and that, with his size, made a very ugly package for anybody on the wrong side of his fists. He was a black belt who thought that breaking boards was a waste of time and good wood.

He had come into Friends strictly as muscle, someone to help out a short, one-armed guy when things got out of hand. But Levine had a brain and was very, very hip. Brainy enough and hip enough to know he didn’t want to stay on the street all his life. So he’d put himself through night classes at City and came out with a management degree, and now he headed up the New York office of Friends, passing by his old friend and partner Joe Graham.