"I'd like to prove you wrong." Brandon's jaw twitched. He glanced through the glass at the wealthy customer now wandering inside. He didn't want a scene on the sidewalk. He stepped aside, just barely. "Fine."
"You get 60 seconds, then you're out." Fletcher walked past him into the store. His polished Oxfords clicked sharply against the marble behind Fletcher. Brandon moved fast, like a man defending a fortress. He cut Fletcher off near the entrance display, blocking the path to the navy cashmere coat in the window. Sir.
The word came out clipped, cold, not a greeting. Fletcher stopped. He blinked slowly, the way tired old men blink, and looked up. "Good morning." "Sir, you need to step back outside."
"I just walked in." "And you're going to walk right back out." Brandon's smile was the smile of a man who already knew how this conversation ended. This isn't a warming station.
We don't let people loiter inside the store. The young saleswoman behind the counter looked away. She had seen this scene play out before. So had Tyler Anderson, standing quietly by the back wall. Tyler's jaw tightened, but he didn't move yet.
A wealthy couple drifted past the front window, peering in. Brandon's whole posture shifted when he saw them. Shoulders back, chin up. He waved them in with a wide plastic smile. Welcome to Sterling Mason, sir, ma'am.
Please, come right inside. He held the bronze door open for them like a butler. Then he let it swing shut in Fletcher's face. Fletcher said nothing. He just watched.
This was lesson number one. The door opened for some people, not for others. He stepped to the side and let the couple pass. Then, calm as morning, he turned back to the navy coat in the window. "Excuse me, can I ask the price of this coat?" Brandon let out a short laugh through his nose.
Sir. Yes? Look at yourself. Fletcher looked down at his own coat, the worn wool, the missing button, the cracked leather at his cuffs. What about it?
That smell. Brandon waved a hand in front of his face theatrically. When was the last time you washed that coat? Our customers don't appreciate it. There's a community shower at the YMCA on 63rd Street.
Walk east. He turned to the saleswoman behind the counter, raising his voice loud enough for the whole floor to hear. Get the air freshener from the back, the lavender one. We're going to need it. The saleswoman didn't move.
She just stared at the floor. A nearby customer, a thin young woman in a denim jacket, flinched. She had been browsing scarves. Her name was Hannah. She was a journalism student at NYU in the store running an errand for her mother.
She slowly pulled her phone out of her pocket. She started recording. Brandon didn't notice. Brandon was too busy enjoying himself. Sir, that coat looks like it crawled out of a Goodwill dumpster.
I mean, Salvation Army, maybe? The fabric is shedding on my floor. It was my father's coat. Then your father had terrible taste. Tyler's hands curled into fists behind his back.
He took one step forward. Brandon caught the movement, snapped his head toward him. Stay there, Anderson. I've got this. Tyler stopped.
But he didn't go back to the wall. Fletcher turned slowly toward the navy cashmere again. "How much is the coat?" Sir, I'm not telling you the price. You can't afford it. You can't even afford to be standing here.
"Try me." Brandon laughed, loud. The sound bounced off the marble and the glass. Try you? Sir, we work by appointment only here. Private clientele.
Walk-ins of your type, we redirect to our website. There's free Wi-Fi at the public library if you need it. "That's not the store policy." "Excuse me?" Sterling Mason has never operated by appointment only.
Not at this location, not anywhere. Brandon's smile flickered just for a half second.
Then it came back, wider, meaner. And how exactly would you know that, sir? "I read." "You read?" Brandon repeated it, savoring the absurdity.
You read? Yes.
What, the Wall Street Journal on your way out of the subway this morning? A short, cruel laugh from one of the other staff members. Brandon turned his head toward the sound, smiled, then turned back to Fletcher. Sir, I'm the manager of this store. I think I know our policy better than some homeless man who wandered in off Fifth Avenue.
Now, I'm going to ask you nicely one more time, please leave before I have to call somebody. "I'd like to see your store policy in writing." Brandon's jaw clenched. I don't owe you a policy document. I owe you the door. The marble floor was very quiet now.
Two other customers had stopped pretending not to listen. Hannah's phone was still recording tucked low against her hip. A second customer, Margaret Davis, 70 years old, a Sterling client of 22 years, had walked in through the bronze doors during the exchange and was now standing very still by the scarf display. Margaret's lips had gone thin and pale. She slowly set down the cashmere scarf she had been holding.
22 years she had been coming to this store. She had bought her late husband's last suit here. She had bought her daughter's wedding gift here. She had never, not once, seen a customer treated like this. She watched Brandon and she felt something old and tired wake up inside her chest.
Fletcher took a slow breath. He had built this company from one rented storefront in Harlem. He had hired the architect to design these marble floors. He had personally interviewed every regional manager Sterling Mason had hired for two decades. He had never been spoken to like this in his own house.
Sir, he said quietly. I came in here to look at a coat. I have not touched anything. I have not raised my voice. I have not threatened anyone.
You are refusing to serve me because of how I look. Do you understand that this is illegal? Brandon stepped closer. He lowered his voice into something almost intimate, the way a bully whispers to a smaller kid. "What's illegal," he hissed, "is you wasting my morning."
"Now walk or I make you walk." Tyler Anderson took another step forward. "Brandon." "Anderson, I told you to stay out of this." "He hasn't done anything." "He's loitering."
"He's harassing customers. He's making the store smell like a homeless shelter." "That's enough." "Sir," Tyler said carefully, looking at Fletcher, "do you want me to walk you out?" "No, son." Fletcher's voice was steady.
"I'd like to finish my conversation with your manager." "Conversation!" Brandon barked.