"What in hell do you call what's going on out there now?" Matowitz said huffily, gesturing toward the outside.

"I call it a peaceful assemblage, but we could turn it into a riot if we wanted to. Do you want to, Chief?"

"Well… of course not."

Ness put his hand on Matowitz's shoulder. "I know it's hard to have your own in the hospital. But don't forget: that's largely what those people out there are upset about, themselves."

Matowitz sighed and stayed out in the hall, going to the railing to watch his Mayor's Guard disperse below, while Ness moved through the outer office, getting a nod from the mayor's male secretary to go on in.

Harold Burton was an unpretentious sort of man to be working out of an office called, aptly, the Tapestry Room. Five huge tapestries depicting the Indian days of the Western Reserve draped the finely detailed, oak-paneled walls; the ceiling was high and ornately-sculptured plaster; a massive wood-and-stone fireplace provided a mantel for a multitude of framed family photos. Burton was, after all, a homey sort, devoted to his wife and children, a man who looked more like a farmer than a big-city mayor.

A powerfully built, wedge-shaped man of fifty years and medium height, Burton's broad brow and regular features were made memorable only by dark-circled eyes; he looked almost haunted today, and, typically, borderline disheveled: his brown suit rumpled his dark tie food-stained.

He stood behind his desk, gesturing for his safety director to sit in one of four chairs opposite him; then the mayor sat as well, saying, "We're going to be joined in about five minutes by representatives of the Steel Workers Organizing Committee. Any objection?"

"None," Ness said. He sat slightly slumped in the chair, legs crossed, ankle on knee.