Liron smiles, nods, and heads out. His ancient Mercedes awaits him in the parking lot, and, ever faithful, rattles quickly to life. Brahms pours from the stereo-deck, or whatever it’s called, and soon he’s gliding along the highway, humming, heading north, over the Bronx border, through Yonkers and on to Dobb’s Ferry. The music of the old master makes the trip soothing, smoothing over the bumps, distancing him from the ever-rushing traffic.