Clive said to the waiter who brought him a glass of bourbon. He couldn’t help staring at the drink floating toward his hand, and as he accepted it he felt a brush of something cold and tingly. Suppressing a shiver, he looked up at where the waiter’s face should be and tried to smile, then turned away and took a large swallow of the drink. This left him facing the stands where the audience sat chattering and fidgeting, waiting for the game to resume. They were an amazing and peculiar sight, but Clive found his gaze drawn above them to where the ghostly ranks drifted, no less restlessly than the live audience, near the ceiling. He searched the gray faces for anyone familiar. There were a lot of women, but none he recognized other than Calamity Jane, who was plucking at the clothes of an old man in a round-topped hat. They were arguing, it appeared. “See anyone you know up there?” Clive glanced at Rothstein, who had come up beside him without his noticing.
