Draft

Dan Stokes thumbed the sweat from his beer glass as he waited for a man in a pinstripe suit. He sat alone at a corner table with a good view of the place, scanning the room while trying to appear as if he weren't. He wore a generic gray suit, deeply creased from hours of travel, and a wine-colored tie busy enough to hide food stains. Even his starched white shirt looked yellowed and muted in the hazy lounge. Tucked in an unlit corner of a crowed bar blanketed with smoke, Stokes was the least conspicuous face in the room, Nonetheless, he felt at this moment as open to general observation as if he'd been the only man standing at center court.