Rick was waiting at the corner of the concourse entrance lugging the stuffed Bears bag, newspaper, and overcoat folded on his arm. He looked like a basketball coach returning from a tournament where every contest had gone double overtime, his team losing the final game. As we rounded the corner into the main concourse, we had to circle a mob surging out of concourse “A.” Flashbulbs popped, men hollered “over here” and “can you give us a picture?” and other nutty things all mixed together. Somewhere in all that mess deodorants had to be failing. If you want to sweat someone, just turn rabid reporters loose at them. The throng parted and four clotheshorses trotted abreast through the chaos, headed toward the escalators. Julia was arm in arm with Miss Mathews and her husband, Henry Gateswood in the middle. The guy on Henry’s left looked like an attorney: tall, ramrod, silver temples. Miss Mathews clutched Julia’s arm like she was going to be swept out to sea and devoured by the five journalistic “W”
