THE CONRAD HILTON’S FIRST-FLOOR BAR is called the Haymarket, and this seems historically significant to at least one of the two Secret Service agents sitting at the bar right now nursing his nonalcoholic drink.
“Like, as in, the Haymarket Riot,” says Agent A——. “The Haymarket Massacre? Anything?” To which Agent B——, whose chin hangs over the glass of club soda he really wishes had bourbon in it, shakes his head. “Nope,” he says. “I got nothin’.”
“It was in Chicago? Eighteen eighty something? Workers striking at Haymarket Square? It’s pretty historic.”
“I thought Haymarket Square was in Boston.”
“There’s one here too. It’s northeast of us, about two clicks.”
“What were they striking for?” asks B——.
“An eight-hour workday.”
“God, I’d love one of those right about now.”
A—— shakes his glass and the bartender fills it. His preferred off-duty drink is this thing involving simple syrup, lemon juice, and rose water. You can’t always find rose water in most places, but the Haymarket Bar, it turns out, is well stocked.
“What happened,” A—— says, “is that they were demonstrating, the workers were, marching and picketing, and then the police showed up and attacked them, and then a bomb went off.”
“Casualties?”
“Several.”
“Perp?”
“Unknown.”
“And you’re bringing this up now because?”
“Because don’t you think it’s a coincidence? That we’re the in the Haymarket Bar? Right now?”
“Riot central,” says B——, pointing with his thumb behind them, toward the thousands of protestors currently gathered beyond the plate-glass windows.
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“A real hedley-medley out there.”
Agent A—— looks sidelong at his partner. “A real hugger-mugger, you might say?”
“Yep. Gone all topsy-turvy.”
“A sincere higgledy-piggledy.”
“Yessir, one hundred percent hurly-burly.”
“A pell-mell.”
“A ribble-rabble.”
“A skimble-skamble.”
They smile at each other and suppress a laugh. They clink their drinks. They could do this all day. Outside, the crowd churns and boils.