There was just no good way to drive from the civilized world into Boston and then find a tavern or cocktail lounge without first getting hung up in Boston traffic, which always seemed to look like a rehearsal for a riot. Digger had read once that Paul Revere’s ride was a myth, a legend with no basis in fact, and he absolutely believed it. By the time he got through traffic to let anybody know the British were coming, they would have come and gone. But Digger knew that the traffic wasn’t the real reason for his annoyance. The real reason was his promise to Frank Stevens that he would look in on his daughter Allison. Pretty, rich, vivacious, a scholar, happy, sweet, and virginal. In other words, an insipid simp. He knew he was going to hate her. Why did Frank insist upon ruining his trip to Boston this way? But it was the price one paid, Digger thought smugly, for hanging around with alcoholics. They only cared about themselves. As his car crossed Boylston Street, he saw a tavern and he spun right madly from the center lane, cutting off another car, and jumped into the narrow opening of a parking lot.
