Chapter 8: The Pitch
Benji's Instagram check-ins made him easy to find.
The bar was upscale—dim lighting, craft cocktails, the kind of place where people went to be seen spending money. I arrived at seven, took a seat near the end of the bar, ordered a whiskey I had no intention of finishing.
The bartender was young, tattooed, indifferent. Good. Anonymity mattered tonight.
Benji walked in at 7:42. Alone, phone in hand, already texting someone. He scanned the room for faces he knew, didn't find any, settled onto a stool three seats away from mine.
"Negroni," he told the bartender. "The good vermouth, not the house stuff."
I waited until his drink arrived before making my move.
"Hey—sorry, this is weird, but are you Benji Donovan? The soda guy?"
Benji's head turned. Suspicion first, then recognition of recognition. His ego responded exactly as I'd predicted.
"Yeah, that's me. Do I know you?"
"No, no—I read an article about Artisan Elixirs a few months back. Stuck with me. The whole craft beverage scene, local production, that stuff." I extended a hand. "Fin. I'm a freelance writer, actually. Business profiles, industry trends."
Benji shook my hand. Firm grip, automatic smile. "Nice to meet you, Fin. What kind of outlets do you write for?"
I'd prepared for this question. Named a few real publications, implied connections without claiming credits. Vague enough to be plausible, specific enough to sound legitimate.
"The beverage industry is interesting right now," I said, sliding one stool closer. "Consolidation everywhere. Big distributors buying up craft brands. You heard about Pacific Grove?"
Benji's eyebrows lifted. "The LA company?"
"Yeah. I interviewed their acquisitions guy last month. They're hungry. Looking for exactly what you're doing—authentic products, founder-driven brands." I sipped my whiskey. "They mentioned they're specifically interested in the New York market."
The hook set. I could see it in Benji's posture—the slight forward lean, the sharpening focus.
"No kidding. They mention anyone specific?"
"Couldn't say. Off the record and all that." I shrugged. "But if I were running a craft soda company with good brand recognition and some financial pressure—hypothetically—I'd want that call."
Benji laughed, but it was nervous. "Who said anything about financial pressure?"
"Nobody. I just read balance sheets for fun. Occupational hazard." I finished my drink, signaled for another I wouldn't touch. "Look, I don't want to pitch you on anything. Just saying—the window for deals like this doesn't stay open forever. When the big players decide they've bought enough craft brands, it's over."
We talked for another hour.
I let Benji steer the conversation, asked questions that let him show off, laughed at jokes that weren't funny. The Social Engineering felt like greasing a lock—finding the right angles, applying pressure where it would move things.
Three drinks in, Benji started complaining about Beck.
"She's great, don't get me wrong. Smart, ambitious, all that." He swirled his glass. "But she wants... I don't know. Commitment. Plans. I'm twenty-eight, man. I'm not ready to plan my life around someone else's schedule."
I nodded sympathetically. "That sounds complicated."
"It is. And I can't exactly explain that I'm more excited about a business call with some LA distributor than about our anniversary dinner next week."
Anniversary dinner. Joe will know about that. Beck's phone will have the details.
"Maybe that's the answer," I said carefully. "If LA is calling... maybe it's calling for a reason. Fresh start. New city. Clean slate."
Benji stared into his drink. "You think?"
"I think sometimes the healthiest thing is admitting when something isn't working. For everyone involved."
The silence stretched. I could almost see the gears turning—Benji weighing his dying company against a dying relationship, finding both wanting.
"I'd need that contact info," he said finally. "For Pacific Grove."
"Email me. I'll send it over tonight."
We exchanged information. Benji entered my number into his phone, already treating me like a useful connection rather than a stranger. The con was working.
The check came. Benji reached for it, hesitated, let his hand drop.
I grabbed it. Eighty-seven dollars for drinks I'd barely touched and information that might save a life. Worth every penny.
"Thanks, man." Benji looked almost embarrassed. "Let me get the next one."
"Deal."
We shook hands outside the bar. Benji headed east toward his apartment. I waited until he disappeared around a corner, then walked the opposite direction.
My phone buzzed at midnight. Confirmation that I'd sent the Pacific Grove contact information.
The reply came at 5:07 AM:
Thanks man. Setting up a call. This could be huge.
Benji was awake and thinking. The seed was growing.
I watched the sunrise through my apartment window, the sky turning pink over Brooklyn. Somewhere in the city, Joe Goldberg was probably watching Beck's window. And somewhere else, Benji Donovan was drafting an email that might keep him alive.
The race was on.
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