"Oh god," she said, and sat down on the bed."Are you ok?" the reporter asked."I'd like if you could go now, Mr. Johnson." Sure."He made it to the door...before she spoke again."Are you - are you going to write a story on this?" I imagine so." Will you include my name?" she asked, panicking."I don't even know your name," he pointed out."I promise to include nothing that will identify you." Thank you - I guess."* * *Johnson sat at home on Saturday afternoon.It was a week since the incident and his. We’ll see.Seven o’clock in Elmont. Eight. Nine. Ten.Unless Fowler had changed his commuting habits, which he hadn’t done since we’d first followed him, he was still at Triple-I, still at work.King Souvlaki was histoire and I needed a bathroom. I slipped out the passenger door, “Call me.”I walked away from All-County toward a small neon sign — a horizontal oval with Frenchy’s Taproom in the middle. Everyone — seven men and one woman — turned to see who had invaded their sanctuary.The place. More

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