From Johnny's viewpoint, the mass of people in Times Square looked fluid. When Donald came into view, joined by his entourage, it was like a drain plug had come loose. The aimless stuttering flow convulsed and whirled around him. Automobile traffic stopped completely. Yet somehow Donald and the Forty managed to move through the roiling mass, finally disappearing into a subway entrance.
One of his agents was down there. Could Donald tell the difference? What was the difference between years of patient study and waking up one morning with blood on your palms? Johnny looked at his palms. Dry as a desert.
back bookmark index