"Let me explain something to you," Grant said, stepping closer to Vincent, close enough that Vincent could see the pores on his skin, close enough that the staff behind Grant could hear every syllable. "This is Sterling Records. Do you know what that means? It means the people who walk through that door have record deals. They have managers. They have agents. They have talent." He paused, let the word hang. "You... you have nothing. You are nothing. And you will touch nothing in this building."
He turned to Ellis. "If he's not out of this lobby in 60 seconds, I'm calling the police. And I'm writing you up for letting him in."
Ellis nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."
Grant straightened his cuffs, adjusted his watch, looked at Vincent one more time, the way a man looks at something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Then his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. His expression shifted, not softened, but redirected. The audition. The big one.
Sterling Records had been scouting for a flagship pianist for their new classical division. Three finalists were scheduled to perform today on the lobby Steinway. The CEO herself, Katherine Moore, was flying in from the West Coast to hear them. Everything had to be perfect.
Grant turned on his heel and walked toward the elevator, already barking instructions into his phone.
Behind him, Vincent Turner still stood in the same spot, unmoved, unhurried. His eyes fixed on the Steinway across the room. Ellis looked at Vincent, then at the door, then back at Vincent. He said nothing. He didn't move.
Grant Prescott came back down 12 minutes later. Vincent was still there. Ellis hadn't moved him. The security guard had stayed behind his desk, pretending to check a clipboard, pretending he hadn't heard Grant's order, pretending that the old man standing quietly near the window wasn't his problem.
Grant saw Vincent from across the lobby and stopped mid-stride. His jaw tightened. His neck flushed red above his collar. He didn't walk toward Vincent. He marched.
"I gave you 60 seconds," Grant said. His voice was louder now, sharper, pitched for the room. "That was 12 minutes ago. You're still standing in my lobby."
Vincent turned to face him. "Sir, I'm not here to cause trouble. I just want to play one song for a meal. That's all I'm asking."
"For a meal?" Grant repeated the words slowly, savoring them. He turned to the cluster of employees who had gathered near the elevator bank, six, maybe seven of them, coffee cups in hand, watching. "Did you all hear that? This man, this homeless man, walked into Sterling Records and asked to trade a song for a sandwich." He spread his arms wide. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have our first charity case of the day."
Laughter. Scattered at first, then fuller. Someone near the back covered their mouth. Someone else didn't bother.
Vincent didn't flinch. "I can play, sir, if you just let me."
"You can play." Grant stepped closer. His voice dropped, but not low enough for privacy. Low enough for intimacy. The kind of closeness that's designed to intimidate. "You know how much that Steinway costs? $300,000. You know what that is? That's more than you'll ever see, touch, or earn in whatever's left of your miserable life."
He pulled back, looked Vincent up and down, boots to beard, and shook his head like a man examining something rotten. "When was the last time you had a bath? Honestly. Because the entire floor can smell you from here."
Grant pinched his nose with two fingers, held the pose, looked at his audience. More laughter. Louder this time. A woman near the reception desk turned away, not from disgust at Grant, but from disgust at Vincent, or maybe shame. It was hard to tell the difference.
Vincent said nothing. His hands stayed at his sides, still, steady. The same hands that had played Rachmaninoff at Carnegie Hall. The same hands that had made Harold Whitfield say, "I've never heard anything better."
Grant reached into his back pocket and pulled out a $5 bill. He held it up between two fingers, high, visible, theatrical. Then let it drop. The bill floated down and landed on the marble floor between Vincent's boots.
"There," Grant said. "Pick it up. Go buy yourself some soap, some deodorant, a sandwich, whatever you people spend money on. Just get out of my building."
Vincent looked down at the bill, then back up at Grant. He didn't pick it up.
Something shifted in Grant's face. The amusement was still there, but underneath it, just barely, a flicker of something else. Not respect, not guilt. Irritation. The particular irritation of a man who expects compliance and doesn't get it.
"You don't even know how to take free money," Grant said. He turned to the crowd. "Look at this. I'm literally handing this man cash and he's too proud or too stupid to pick it up. What do you expect from people like this?"
He pulled out his phone, held it up, started recording. "Say cheese, buddy." Grant grinned into the camera, positioning himself next to Vincent like a tourist posing with the street performer. "This is what walks into Sterling Records on a Thursday morning. This is what I have to deal with."
Two more phones came out, then three. An intern near the elevator angled her screen for a better shot. No one said stop. No one said anything.