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Show 166 all their jogging shoes. Leah would have said he was just being bizarre again, checking people's response. He had wine with his lunch. "What's in this sandwich?" he asked the stewardess. "Mystery meat," she said, smiling at the novel beside him. Leah would have told him it was a Reuben. Twenty minutes from scheduled landing, the pilot cracked the intercom. "You may have noticed some turbulance," he began. "Tell us something we don't know!" a passenger bellowed. The pilot said that landing at Kennedy was impossible. It was "socked in." They would land at Newark. Hunt thought of any passengers who were being met. He thought of friends, family, lovers waiting for what would not materialize. Then in the Newark terminal, deplaned, it occurred to Hunt that he did not know this city, had never been here. His orphaned father had been raised for a time by an auntin Patterson and Hunt had been to Patterson, but he had never been to Newark; Newark was a war zone; it was a gutted and dismembered city: What had brought him here? Clouds, he could hear Leah answering in his mind: Hunt; don't embellish; it's very simple -- clouds brought you. A Newark bus dropped Hunt at the Manhattan Port Authority too late to call Suskind. At the Essex House, his phoned reservation had been misplaced and so he walked East to The Americana where they had a room but said his charge card was unacceptable; he'd exceeded his limit. The next morning Hunt called Suskind. "Irwin," he said; "It's Hunt." "Who?!" Suskind almost barked the question into the phone. "Just a |