The Biology of Luck Read Online Free Page A

yourself to the vapors of incense, braced for the impending sting of burning sulfur and smoldering tires, you notice the glass beads. Even madness has its unifying elements, the glimmer of turquoise and orange, the omnipresent necklaces and bracelets and waist chains, the placards reading, “No Pete Stuyvesant, No Bedford-Stuyvesant, No More,” and “Take Back Your Trinkets and Sail Home,” all of which reassure you that the heavenly puppeteer may be palsied but that he still holds the drawstrings. It is all harmless. It is a high-stakes Mardi Gras and nothing more. But then, if you are Larry, you notice the other distinctive blemish that bales the crowd toward collective action: A disquieting absence of beauty.
    The moment has the makings of a noteworthy disaster.
    Larry scans the tableau behind the cordon for a familiar face. He’d like to push his way through the blockade like a plainclothes detective on a crime show, to stiffen his back, undaunted by the harsh Irish physiognomies of New York’s finest, challenging them to deny him access to his rightful place among the upstanding burghers at the banquet tables, thriving on their frustration when his identity is affirmed, but he knows he is better off seeking corroboration at the outset. He does not need to wait long. P. J. Snipe, the tour supervisor, nods in Larry’s direction and escorts him into the sanctuary of the privileged.
    â€œThis is a goddamn nightmare,” says Snipe. “I feel like I’m at a Dylan concert.”
    Snipe isn’t fooling anyone. Larry is confident his boss hasn’t ever listened to a Dylan song, much less attended a rock show. He is the sort of over-the-hill minor-sport athlete, in this case archery, who one can’t imagine at any variety of cultural event, who would sleep his way just as easily through a chamber quartet or an outdoor bluegrass festival or a stadium concert of Hogtie and the Pentecostal Five, all the while managing to look smug with his eyes shut. He is also thesort of over-confident micromanager who thrives on disruptions such as this one. They hired him over Larry’s head, impressed by his fifth-tier law degree, probably also by his gold wedding band and toned biceps, although the cretin failed the Mississippi state bar three times and wears the ring to attract unpossessive women. Snipe is a sham. A robust, clean-cut sham. But Snipe makes no pretense of being anything but a sham, hangs it out there on his sleeve until you’re surprised to discover that you’ve known him three years and he still hasn’t sold you an annuity or an Arizona condo, until you realize that—in spite of your initial determination and better judgment—he’s endeared his way into your life.
    â€œDo you realize what a nightmare this is, Bloom? The Dutch consul is set to show up in twenty minutes and he’s expecting brotherly love, and bagels and lox, and that New York shit. Not a Christ-forsaking freak show! Do you know what this is, Bloom? I’ll tell you what this is. This is dog piss.”
    â€œBut what exactly
is
it?”
    Snipe has steered them into a shaded alcove behind the guard tower. His conversation voice carries over the staccato of the wooden spoons on brass, but Larry needs to shout to make himself heard.
    â€œHow the hell should I know?” demands Snipe. “Something about Native American Indian Liberation Day. We apparently scheduled our event for the same day as their event—and they took it as a slight. And now this!”
    â€œThey could have at least warned us.”
    â€œThey did. They sent a petition with three thousand names. I double-checked with Fed Ex. Some moron lost the letter.”
    Larry holds his tongue. He’d like to speculate on the identity of the moron, suggest that the idiot be instantly terminated, but the last thing he needs is to get himself fired for impertinence on the day of his date with Starshine. All he