CHAPTER 8

From the corner of Hudson and West Broadway, Noah could see the overflow crowd spilling out onto the sidewalk. The place was packed wall to wall; light from inside the tavern was dimmed by the press of a standing‑ room‑ only audience lined around the interior windows.

Just keep on walking‑ this sage advice piped in from his rational side‑ write off this whole wretched night, and get home to that nice, hot Jacuzzi. Maybe a wiser young man would have listened, cut his losses, and punted, but he felt a stubborn commitment that trumped any thoughts of turning back. To stop now would mean the miserable trip had all been for nothing.

Noah checked his look in a darkened shop window, ran a rake of fingertips through his hair until it looked somewhat presentable, straightened his dirty, wet clothing, and crossed the street to wade into the rowdy sea of redneck humanity.

Live music from inside was filtering out through the buzz of the crowd. There were so many people it was impossible to keep to a straight line as he walked. The diversity of the gathering was another surprise; there seemed to be no clear exclusions based on race, or class, or any of the other traditional media‑ fed American cultural divides. It was a total cross section, a mix of everyone‑ three‑ piece suits rubbing elbows with T‑ shirts and sweat pants, yuppies chatting with hippies, black and white, young and old, a cowboy hat here, a six‑ hundred‑ dollar haircut there‑ all talking together, energetically agreeing and disagreeing as he moved through them. In the press, these sorts of meetings were typically depicted as the exclusive haunts of old white people of limited means and even more limited intelligence. But this was everybody.

As Noah edged his way inside the door he saw the source of the music, a lone guitarist on a makeshift elevated stage. His appearance didn’t match up with the power of his voice‑ on the street you’d never notice him, just another skinny little guy with bad skin and a three‑ day stubble‑ but he was owning that stage like a rock star. He was in the middle of a 1960s‑ era grassroots folk song, singing and playing with a quiet intensity that let every note and phrase say just what it had been written to say.

At the turn of the chorus the musician pointed to the audience, lowered his lips to the harmonica harnessed around his neck, and played on with a rousing, plaintive energy as the people raised their voices and sang along.

This music and the mood it was creating, it was a smart PR move if they could make it work. If their enemies were trying to paint them as a bunch of pasty‑ white NASCAR‑ watching, gun‑ toting, pickup‑ driving reactionaries with racist and violent tendencies, what better ploy could these people make than to subtly invoke the peace‑ loving spirits of Martin Luther King and Mahatma Gandhi? If nothing else it would drive their critics on the left right up the wall.

Noah ducked a passing tray of Budweisers and was jostled from behind as he stepped back to let the server squeeze by. He turned to see whom he’d run into, and there, standing before him, was Molly Ross.

The first thing he noticed was that she’d changed her outfit. More stylish jeans and a warm autumn sweater, nails freshly done, a little purple flower in her hair instead of the pencils. But more than just her clothes had changed. The difference was subtle but striking and it probably boiled down to one thing: she gave a damn how she might come across to these people, in contrast to her obvious disdain for those at the office. That’s what it was; she seemed like she was right where she belonged, and the effect was very easy on the eyes.

“Well, ” Molly said, allowing him only a conditional hint of a smile, “look what the cat dragged in. ” For the first time he noticed a light Southern lilt in her words.

“Yeah, I made it. I said I would. ”

She pulled aside the lapel of his overcoat, tsked, and shook her head. “What did you do, walk all the way down here in the rain? ”

“Don’t ask. ”

“Hold still. ” With a disapproving sigh she helped him off with his overcoat, then folded it over her arm. “Come on, I’ve got a table over there by the jukebox. I’ll go look around‑ somebody here’s got to have an extra shirt you can wear. ”

“No, really, don’t bother‑ ”

But she’d already turned, offering her hand so he wouldn’t lose her. He took it, following as she worked their way through the thick of the crowd.

Soon they arrived at a little round pub table for two near the stage, with high stools on either side. In a higher‑ class joint, seats this close would have been reserved for the VIPs.

“I’ll be right back, ” she said, and then she disappeared into the noisy multitude.

After one more all‑ American number the singer finished his set to spirited applause and loud bar‑ thumping. As the ovation subsided a passing waitress asked Noah what she could get for him.

“For some reason, ” Noah said, “I’ve suddenly got a craving for a Samuel Adams. ” She took the order down on her pad, but his not‑ so‑ subtle dig at the goings‑ on in the bar seemed completely lost on her.

Molly came back with two cups of coffee, a choice of three dry shirts, and an enormous bearded man in jumpsuit coveralls and a Beech‑ Nut baseball cap. The clothes she’d apparently foraged from the luggage of some out‑ of‑ towners in attendance. It wasn’t clear where she’d picked up the big guy, but he looked like he might have hiked here straight from a hayride.

The big man ticked his chin in Noah’s direction. “Who’s your boyfriend? ” he asked.

“Not my boyfriend, ” Molly said, in a tone meant to emphasize what a far‑ fetched idea that really was. “This is Noah Gardner, from where I work, and Noah, this is my friend Hollis. ”

A beefy right hand the size of a fielder’s mitt came toward him, and Noah put out his own. “Good to know you, Hollis, ” he said, with a clasp only firm enough to transmit sincerity without throwing down a challenge for that iron‑ grip competition some men love to engage in upon first meeting.

“The pleasure’s all mine, ” the big man said. Good etiquette had obviously been drilled into him from childhood; by his manner it seemed that shaking hands with a total stranger was an event to be treated with great respect. In contrast to his physical size his voice was unexpectedly high and reedy. The overall effect was something like being introduced to Winnie‑ the‑ Pooh, if Winnie‑ the‑ Pooh had been a seven‑ foot, mostly shaven, talking grizzly bear.

Molly had brought back a selection of men’s tops, including a faded sweatshirt from Kent State, a dark burglar’s hoodie with a torn pocket and a pattern of moth holes, and a two‑ tone T‑ shirt that said presumed ignorant on the front. He took the sweatshirt.

“Thanks, ” Noah said, looking around. “Where can I go to put this on? ”

“For heaven’s sake, it’s just your shirt. Go ahead and change right here if you want to. ” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table and her chin in her palms, with a bewitching innocence on her face that was not quite as pure as the driven snow. “I doubt you’ve got anything under there me and Hollis haven’t seen before. ”

“Aha. So you admit that I’m human. ”

She seemed to study him deeply, as if the piece to a stubborn blank in a jigsaw puzzle might be hiding somewhere within his gaze. It must have been only a second or two, but it felt so much longer than any other mere moment he could remember.

“We’ll see, ” she said.

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