"Sir." Phillips approached, his voice pitched just loud enough for nearby tables to hear. "I'm afraid we have a dress code."
James straightened. Military habits died hard. "I understand. I'm not here as a customer."
"Then why are you here?" Phillips kept a careful distance, as if homelessness might be contagious.
"I heard your pianist during my set break," James said quietly. "I'm a musician. Classically trained."
Phillips's laugh drew attention from nearby tables. "Are you now? And let me guess: Carnegie Hall is just between gigs?"
"Juilliard, actually. Before Afghanistan." James didn't flinch. "I'm not asking for money, just food. I can play during his break."
The current pianist finished his set, bowing to polite applause. He nodded to Phillips, indicating his fifteen-minute break.
"Look at him," Phillips said to a nearby table of business executives. "He went to Juilliard." More laughter followed.
James remained still. Dignity was sometimes all you had left.
A young bartender watched the exchange, discomfort evident in her eyes. She'd started a month ago—long enough to know how Phillips operated, not long enough to become numb to it.
"Mr. Phillips," she ventured, "maybe during Jake's break..."
"Emily, please. We're not a charity." Phillips turned back to James. "Sir, I'll have to ask you to leave before I call security."