The Crazy Horse resembled a million other dead-end dives—small and narrow, bar along one wall, booths along the other. Old rock music played, the air thick with drug smoke and sweat. Three large men in stained overalls sat to her left, construction workers covered in white plaster dust. Their reprinted arms bulged with muscle, zip scars inflamed by immune system errors. Cheap work, maybe from the High Line. They would get involved, too dumb to spot real trouble when it arrived.