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The benefit party was at an upscale red brick townhouse in Chinatown. It was pounding out music so loudly that Maryanne felt small waves of nausea with each vibration. She rang the doorbell, and the door was opened a moment later by a large, balding, older man wearing a black tuxedo and headset. Behind him, the loud trance music pounded through the doorway like hot blasts of wind.

From the way he immediately scowled at the sight of Maryanne, she assumed he either hated trance music, the sight of her, or more likely both.

The man bellowed, "On the list?” It was almost impossible to make out what he was saying, and Maryanne wasn't certain the man would even hear her.

"I don't think so," Maryanne shouted back over the music, "I'm a guest of Tiffany Von Vandenberg. I'm her assistant and she has my ticket."

"That's a problem," the man shouted back, "Why didn't you come together?"

Maryanne was still too hung over to generate an appropriate summary. So she simply shouted, "We hate each other."

The man considered this for a moment, then stepped to the side of the door and gestured for her to enter.

After the FaceTime with Tiffany, it had taken all of MaryAnne’s strength to get out of her makeshift bed, take a quick shower, and get dressed. To ease the nerves she'd felt while dressing, she'd taken a shot of bourbon for each article of clothing she put on. Fortunately she wasn't wearing much: a low-cut red dress that she'd worn on her vacation with Glen, now the only dress she owned.

Inside the house was a series of loft-like rooms. Maryanne recalled from Tiffany's invitation that each was supposed to have a theme. She entered the main party room and immediately recognized all the furnishings, dark-toned pieces from a variety of Asian regions. It was a careless, moneyed mismatch, but the 20-30 sweaty dancers writhing around the furniture seemed too under the sway of the pounding music, DJ lights, and marijuana smoke to care.

"What's the theme of this room?" Maryanne asked the man with the tuxedo?

"Rich assholes in a cheap whorehouse," the man replied.

Maryanne pulled up a picture of Tiffany on her phone and said, "This is my boss. Have you seen her?"

"Oh, yeah," the man replied after looking at the picture, "She's on the roof with Lee Johnson."

"Who?"

"You don't know Lee Johnson?" the man asked.

What was the right answer, Maryanne thought to herself: "Well, I knew him well enough to collude in a fraud attempt. But not well enough to get his name," she could say. But instead, she simply replied with the most accurate answer.

"No." 

"Well, odds are," the man said as he pointed her toward the elevator to the roof, "he knows who you are."

The roof had been turned into the "chill out" lounge, but no one there looked particularly chill. Whereas the downstairs floor was likely set up for the assistants to blow off steam and make out with each other, the upstairs had been set up for their bosses to simmer and size up each other. Music that consisted of two-note soft percussion was mood-assisted by atomizers that wafted citrus-scented aromatherapy oil at regular intervals. The deck was finished with a real-grass green carpet and bean bag chairs, where young, mostly bearded men wearing expensive suits and shabby chic sneakers sat. The men looked blankly at their phones and occasionally shared a word with each other, but mostly just stared at the women circling the bar. This was a tech benefit, so there were few women. And what few there were had worn skirts too short for bean bags and so had no choice but to stand at the round bar placed at the center of the roof. They wandered slowly around it, gliding their arms up and down as they moved, no doubt trying to get a good phone signal in under-towered Chinatown. Their gliding slow-motion cycles around the bar made them almost seem to hover, like pensive apparitions trying in vain to cross over. The women and the men had all spent hundreds to be here, yet to Maryanne it seemed they'd all rather be somewhere else--with the exception of Tiffany, who Maryanne was able to find simply by following the sound of her loud laughter.

True to her commitment to public excellence, Tiffany was making sure everyone could see she was having the best time of anyone at the party. She had stacked three bean bag chairs so she could sit comfortably and cavort with the two most recognizable men there, failed artist-turned-deal-fixer Italian Bob and the occasional tech investor and frequent party-drug dealer Luca Domingo Domingo.

Tiffany didn't get up when she saw Maryanne, extending her cheek slightly so that Maryanne knew she was expected to brush it with her own.

“So happy to see you my dear,” She gushed with her best Hollywood step-and-repeat smile, “You of course know Italian Bob and Luca Domingo Domingo.”

"Do you have a track suit?“ Domingo Domingo asked Maryanne matter of factly, as though inquiring about a piece of gum.

After a puzzled moment, Maryanne replied, "Not on me."

Italian Bob cackled with druggy laughter and shouted, "Tiffany! This is your assistant? She could run the fucking place."

"Oh I know," Tiffany replied, her grin diminishing only slightly. She patted the bean bag next to her and said, "Take a seat dear."

Maryanne took a seat, though the bean bag it more kneeling, as she knew was Tiffany's intention. As she sat, she finally noticed that Italian Bob was holding the largest joint she'd ever seen.

"Luca was just talking about how absolutely impossible it is to find a fashionable track suit that actually fits," Italian Bob said, "You know, like the Run DMC tracksuits. You have to get them tailored.”

Italian Bob took a drag on the joint and handed it to Domingo Domingo, who reciprocated. Maryanne knew it was moving in her direction. Even in her barely coherent state, she knew one hit could send her toppling off the roof. Conversely, turning down the weed of two highly connected dealmakers was professionally unwise. She'd need to transition to business before the joint made it to her.

“So Tiffany, where's your date?" Maryanne asked, abruptly ending the tracksuit conversation, to the clear annoyance of Domingo Domingo.

"I should've known that's all you wanted with us," Italian Bob said with a dismissive wave of the hand, “Where's Lee Johnson."

"No offense to you Tiffany," Domingo Domingo said as he handed her the joint,"But how the hell did you get a date with Lee Johnson?"

Italian Bob continued, "One of the Wired 100 Disruptors, one of the Forbes 20 under 25, and plus he's just--he's got gobs of money."

"Gobs and gobs," Domingo domingo said with a reverent nod.

"And now he has our Tiffany too," Italian Bob said with a too-familiar squeeze of Tiffany's knee.

Domingo Domingo leaned in closer to Tiffany, his face even more serious, and repeated, "How the hell do you get a date with Lee Johnson?"

"Well," Tiffany said with a coquettish grin, "He asked me out, actually."

"How?!" Italian Bob said, wagging a scolding finger at her, "Tell me how you just meet Lee Johnson."

"We got matched by an executive dating service."

"Bullshit!" Italian Bob shouted, then put his hands under his chin like a schoolgirl and said, "Tell me more."

"Assistants usually handle the correspondence with the service, naturally, so you have to list your assistant's contact info, and, well," Tiffany paused, about to light the joint, then reluctantly said, "apparently he saw Maryanne's name and reached out. Because he's a positively effusive fan of her website.”

Domingo domingo considered this for a moment, then removed the joint from Tiffany's hand and immediately extended it to Maryanne.

"Tell me everything," Domingo Domingo said, "Everything there is to know about your website."

***

Ava rose from the table and folded up the family tree.

"You're just leaving?" Glen asked.

Ava had picked up her purse but immediately threw it down and said, "Really? You're actually going to ask me if I'm leaving?"

"I'm sorry," Glen replied.

"You fucking should be," Ava said.

After a moment's silence, Ava sat back down and reluctantly said, "Assuming that he's ours: So he hates the people who gave him up. Fine, I'd maybe hate us too. But robbery? Insurance fraud? And what's with the cameras?"

Glen shrugged and said, "He has access to gear that most people don't have, and he configured it in a way, that prior to now, I thought only I could."

"But why is he doing it?!" Ava asked

"It's...some kind of message, I assume."

"No, it's not. A text is a message, and the fact that we're both sitting here proves he obviously has a handle on that."

"He had a reason. We just have to figure it out," glen said.

"No we don't!" Ava replied, "Jesus, you were always so quiet it was easy to miss how fucking self-important you are. This isn't a straight-to-netflix thriller, Glen. I don't have to crack a code, and I'm not going to track anything down." She stood back up and said, "I can just leave. It seemed to work alright for you."

"I'm...sorry." Glen replied.

"I'm sure you are," Ava said, then reached into her purse, and handed him a key, "This is for the storage place. Hopefully she'll get everything back. And it'll be like the whole thing never happened."

Ava left without another word, and Glen watched her go. He was still looking at the door long after she'd walked through it.

He was getting up to leave when the bartender said, "Sorry 'bout that, man. You want another drink?"

"Sorry for what?" Glen asked.

"I'm just saying. Sorry it didn't work out with her."

Glen looked at him for a long moment and finally realized from his glazed eyes and sheepish smile, the man wasn't psychic. He was just a tip hustler working Glen to stay.

"It's a numbers game, man," the bartender continued, "Another guy was with her just before you and struck out. But he packed it in too soon. Stick around and you'll see, there'll be million more like her tonight."

"Can you tell me what the guy looked like?" Glen asked.

***

Lee Johnson was nowhere to be found. And after taking two hungover hits off the joint while pitching her site to two men who reeked of VC capital even more than they did of weed, Maryanne was finally ready to vomit. She excused herself and headed for the elevator. When it arrived, she punched the button for the first floor, where she recalled seeing a bathroom. She shut her eyes to focus on calming her stomach, and so didn't notice that someone else had entered the elevator.

"Hey Maryanne," he said

She knew from the voice who it was before she opened her eyes.

"Lee Johnson," Maryanne said, "That's your name?"

"It is. Came up with it myself, actually." Lee wore a tailored suit, nice enough to look like he belonged at the party, but not so nice that he'd stand out, "Sort of a long story though,” he continued, "Do you have a second to talk?"

"That's why I'm here," Maryanne replied.

"Great," Lee said and pressed the emergency stop button on the elevator.

Maryanne had only been in the elevator for a few seconds, but a day of tequila and two hits of weed were already squeezing the walls toward her.

"No offense," Maryanne said, "But I don't feel comfortable talking to you in an elevator right now."

"Why not?" Lee replied, "It's the only place here where we won't have to yell, won't be overheard and won't be interrupted."

"Of course we'll be interrupted," Maryanne said as she slid down to the floor to gain some imaginary distance from the elevator ceiling that she perceived to be only inches above her now, "You just hit the emergency stop," she continued, "Which calls the fire department."

"It won't though," Lee replied.

"And how do you know that?" Maryanne asked.

"I researched this building," Lee said, "It's got dozens of unpaid safety violations on record. Like this emergency stop button that sends a distress signal to no one."

Maryanne couldn't help chuckling and said, "Do you research every building you visit?"

"Of course," Lee replied, "You don't?"

"Is this what you wanted to talk about?" Maryanne asked.

"No," Lee replied, "I mostly just wanted to apologize."

"I can't imagine why," Maryanne said.

"Of course. I obviously had ulterior motives when we met, but I never intended to hurt you, specifically."

"Then what were you trying to do?"

"I thought I knew," Lee replied, "I was certain, in fact, when I met you. But now it all seems as poorly conceived as this benefit."

There was a flyer for the party on the floor of the elevator and Lee picked it up and handed it to Maryanne.

"They threw it together to celebrate the launch of this company - Date.ly," Lee said, "'The revolution in romance.' Have you heard how it works?" Lee asked.

"Barely? I think you send a saliva swab off to some lab while an app monitors your physical and social data. And somehow you get a match."

"Their proprietary 'love triangle algorithm'” Lee said, "You know I was their first investor? It's pure garbage of course," he continued, "But people will buy it. You gotta wonder though: What if it actually worked? What if it had existed, say, when Ava and Glen first met?"

"Why are you doing all of this?!"  Maryanne shouted.

"Glen still hasn't told you?"

"Hasn't told me what?"

"Hm," Lee said and depressed the emergency stop button, "Then I guess I'm not so sorry for what's going to come next. Goodnight Maryanne."

The elevator opened and Lee walked out, immediately disappearing into the sweaty wrangle of dancing bodies. As the heat of the dance floor began to wrap around her, Maryanne felt oddly at ease now, the hangover bringing down the paranoia of the weed and the weed calming the churn of the hangover. She moved closer toward the dance floor. She knew she should connect with Glen, but the thought of doing so filled her with dread. Here, for a while, she could be just another intern. The deep beat of the music began to draw her in toward its center.

***

In the back of the taxi, Glen waited for his FaceTime call to connect. When it finally did, he immediately recognized the face of his insurance agent.

"Hey buddy," Brad said, "What's going on?"

"How do you know him?" Glen asked.

"Lee?" Brad replied, "I don't know him at all. He found me, probably less than a day after he became our biggest investor. Which was probably a day after I became your agent. He's really got it in for you, Glen."

"Did he tell you why?" Glen asked.

Brad grinned widely and said, "Nope. And once he told me what I was going to get paid, I sure as heck wasn't going to ask."

"Why were you at the bar tonight?"

Brad chuckled and said, "Great question, but I think I'm gonna have to pass on that one, Glen. Anything else I can do for you?"

"Can you contact him?" Glen asked.

"Maybe," Brad replied.

"The cameras he installed in my apartment," Glen said, "Tell him to turn them back on in about 2 hours."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because I'm reinstalling them," Glen replied, "A place I think he'll find interesting."