Warp by Lev Grossman

Square, to where the streets got narrower and darker.
    â€œWhy did you have to say that thing about Teri Garr?” said Peters. “Here I am introducing you to a beautiful woman—”
    â€œOh, for God’s sake,” said Hollis. “She’s an undergraduate—she must be eighteen years old.”
    â€œSo? You’re only twenty-three,” said Peters. “Love is ageless. Besides, you’re probably the most undergraduate person I know. And I know a lot of undergraduates.”
    In the row of darkened storefronts there was one lighted window, a café where people were loading up on coffee and pastries after a night of drinking.
    â€œHow would you feel if somebody said you looked like Scott Bakula, or something? Or Bronson Pinchot? God, no wonder Eileen dumped you.”
    â€œTeri Garr’s pretty well-preserved,” Hollis said calmly. “Anyway, I broke up with Eileen, not the other way around, if you want to know the truth.”
    â€œThat’s what they all say,” said Peters.
    The side street led them to a wide plaza set with curvy, impressionistic stone benches. A few skinny saplings had been planted there, in square plots. A couple of buskers were still playing—two tough-looking women sitting facing each other on stools, an acoustic guitarist and a drummer. The music was very soft, almost inaudible, and the drummer bent her head down to listen more intently to the guitar. Hollis hugged his overcoat tight around him. He stopped and picked up a schedule out of a plastic milk crate sitting in front of a movie theater.
    â€œShe has a boyfriend, anyway,” Peters said, after a while. “Eleanor does. He’s a real nebbish. Which reminds me—did you hear about Peter Bracey?”
    They stopped to wait at another crossing.
    â€œHe got a job writing for Letterman. One day he’s sitting around in his apartment, making jokes about snot. No job, no furniture, no money, no nothing. Now he’s making a hundred thousand a year.”
    â€œJesus Christ,” said Hollis.
    â€œHe was on the Lampoon . Full of fucking connections.”
    The Ghost Town Café was on the corner of a dark alley that was closed off to cars by two metal posts set in the pavement. Hollis and Peters walked down it in step, silently, hands in their pockets. The alley was in the process of being metamorphosed into a pedestrian shopping zone: they’d replaced the asphalt with cobblestones, and a nearby department store had set up a row of display windows. A tangle of wrought-iron fire escapes still hung ominously overhead, and farther along a big blue Dumpster was overflowing in an alcove. The cobblestones were wet, and they gleamed in the light from a single streetlight.
    A group of three was already waiting for them outside the GT. Peters waved as they came up, and Blake gave a cursory wave back.
    â€œHey hey, it’s the Manqués, ” said Basil, who was tall and thin, with high cheekbones. His short dark hair was cut in a Spartacus style.
    â€œIt’s fucking freezing out here,” said Rob, a redheaded undergraduate with a long Roman nose. His ears were almost perfectly perpendicular to his head. “I’m going in.”
    Blake had already pushed through the door. The interior of the GT was supposed to look like a Mexican cantina: everything was made of rough unfinished wood, and there were paintings of cactuses on the walls and neon Corona and Dos Equis signs hanging in the windows. About half the tables were full, and there was a noisy crowd around the bar. They sat down in a booth. Peters collected everybody’s coats and piled them up in an empty seat.
    â€œYour coat, sir?” he said, turning to Hollis.
    â€œBe careful. There’s a check in the inside pocket.”
    â€œIs there?” said Peters. “Let me guess—Mom’s life insurance paid off.”
    â€œI liquidated my last stocks today,” Hollis said.