19
The beer hall wasn’t a terrible place to talk. There weren’t any chairs, but the comparatively narrow doorway and the bouncer kept the hurricane of the jam-packed con suite next door down to a mild tornado. By Sunday night the smell of beer would turn stale and rancid, but tonight the air still tasted fresh. His feet hurt from the terrible shoes and his head ached with the effort of straining voices out of the noise, but he had enough space behind him to shift his weight and buy a few vital inches from Ralph and Marsupial.
He couldn’t reclaim his personal space, but he could pretend.
“So, Ralph,” Marsupial said, straightening the collar of his unnaturally tidy polo shirt, “are you going to keep using the smaller networks?”
Ralph scowled into his red plastic cup. “We were going to. I
