Felix Novak crossed into Manhattan at about half-past one in the morning, on the last of what had been a succession of unusually hot March nights. He came off the George Washington Bridge and coasted down Broadway. He told himself again that he knew where he was headed and fought to keep cool against the great human surge of the city.
Within minutes he'd made eye contact with a man who told him to go the fuck on back home, with a woman who smiled and ran her hand over the sparkling purple paint on the hood of his car. Soon he was caught up in late night Times Square traffic. He found himself banging on his horn for what...