It’s neither the first place in which they’ve met, nor likely to be the last.
The hotel in question stands among its fellows at the southernmost edge of Central Park, equidistant, more or less, between the rivers bounding the City to the east and west. The room itself -- (modern, he’s been told; with all its wood, metal, granite, and glass) -- faces the Park at an angle, and, beyond, the towers and lights of the Upper East Side.
It’s ten minutes from here to the docks on the Hudson by car. Twenty-five by foot.
Tora isn’t one to be impressed by the ostentatious and artless, for all that he has a liking, and an eye, for the expensive. It’s for that reason alone that, when he rounds the sleek bar top -- two lowball glasses in hand -- and drinks in the full effect of Manhattan in the night, laid in a glittering sprawl across the glass wall, he smiles.
He knows enough about this city by now to know that it’s a view which costs more for a single evening than what many earn in a month.
He knows too that James Wesley is a man with a deep wallet.
Tora’s smile, if faint, sharpens.
James Wesley, for his part, cuts a tailored silhouette into the skyline from his place at the window, back dimly lit by the warm glow of interior lighting behind. Tora makes little secret of his approving scrutiny as he crosses the floor to join him, appearing at length at Wesley’s elbow and slipping a customary drink into his waiting hand. Already Tora can smell him, and he thinks in lazy pieces about simply pressing his nose into the short, neat hair just behind Wesley’s ear, and breathing. Contenting himself instead with a fleeting smirk for now, and the barest touch to the small of Wesley’s back, he looks away and nods past their dual reflections in the glass. Outside, the cityscape gleams.
(He finds that he’s genuinely curious about the answer, in much the same way that he’s aware, mutedly, that the Kitchen, Hell’s Kitchen, lies but a stone’s throw behind the hotel, to their southeast. He isn’t fool enough to think it unintentional on Wesley’s part; that, while Wesley may have chosen to put his back to the Kitchen for the night, in a building which rears up and away from it as if from a bad smell, it nonetheless remains impeccably within his periphery. Tora swirls the contents of his own glass idly.)
“Even if your--, work, were concluded; or if it could come with you. Would you stay here?”