“You like our waiter, Edgey? I’ll get you his number.”
“Oh, please don't—”
But Larry’s already up and halfway across the restaurant, shit-eating smile in place: “Hey! Pardon me, gorgeous, I hate to bother you, but you see my friend back there? The hot one? Well…”
How does it work, Phoenix wonders? How does Larry manage to do this? It makes no sense. Phoenix would not touch Larry with somebody else’s ten-foot-pole. But the waiter is looking back at them and smiling, and Miles has his face buried in his hands.
“He’s doing it, isn’t he…”
“Yep,” says Phoenix, popping the P.
“Ngh…”
“He is a pretty good wingman.”
“I don’t want a wingman.”
“And yet you hang out with Larry Butz.”
Miles looks up at the ceiling and gestures in wordless exasperation, and meanwhile Larry’s back, victorious, and hands Miles a little piece of paper. It’s got a number. And ooh: a winky face. Miles takes it as if he’s been handed a wad of chewed gum.
“Who’s got you?” croons Larry. “Larry’s got you.”
Phoenix leans over and frowns at Larry. “Hey, how come he’s the hot one?”
Larry looks at him briefly. “I don’t control your genes, Nick.”