"Oh, quit pouting, Trevor. You're acting like a big baby. She was going to find out anyway."
He'd never looked away first in all the years I'd known him. I finally turned slightly and pretended to scan the crowd.
"Why don't you just come to work for me, Trev? Chicks dig computer programmers." He took another belt from his bottle and his arm across my shoulders became less an act of friendship than a means to stay upright.
"No they don't."
"Better than tobacco industry bigwigs."
"I don't know anything about computers."
"You could bring us coffee."
He laughed until he doubled over and started coughing. Being the helpful soul I am, I slapped him on the back hard enough to almost cause his knees to buckle beneath him. He wisely moved to a safer distance, smoothed his hair one last time, and then sped off after Tina.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...