By Richard Lowry
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Extra resources for Banquo's Ghosts
And maybe I’m too tight to suffer intellectuals gladly tonight. ” And with that he went home to Brooklyn. Nobody missed him. But that very next morning after the party, Johnson discovered who won. Nobody. Instead, everyone lost. He awoke on the living room couch about 9:30 with the fish hook of a moderate hangover under one eye, still wearing his suit jacket but no pants, and the phone ringing in his ear. He picked it up. “Look out the window, Mr. ” But he went to the window anyway. His Brooklyn Heights condo faced straight across the East River near the Brooklyn Bridge, and there he saw what everyone saw that morning.
Mr. Johnson, thank you for coming. ” The more forbidding figure of the two was Sheik Kutmar, little sheik to the big mullah who would decide matters of access. Johnson tried not to stare at the dark prayer callus directly in the middle of the man’s forehead. He was in the presence of the next line of eyes, the next level of ears. Sheik Kutmar sat at right angles to the American, neither looking him directly in the eye, nor getting up to shake his hand, nor even speaking. His presence was enough.
No Giselle. He knocked on the bathroom door, no answer, then yanked it open. The empty tub and toilet sneered at him. Out the apartment window the Single Tower was barely visible through the smoke and seemed to be beginning to tilt. The hallway quiet and still, but the chaos across the river ran riot in his mind, the screams, the sirens, the sinister patter of falling debris. He started to weep. Tears of pure bourbon coming, the whole of last night running from his head. Nostrils, eyes, from his slobbering mouth.