THIRTY-SIXHE HAD ON A CREAM-COLORED suit over a white shirt. The 40-year-old’s gunmetal hair had been slicked back—a little too long and shiny for my taste. Noah Wilson was one of those people that only occasionally appeared in magazines or on television, not one of those famous people that got swamped in public like other celebrities. At least not outside Australia.
The couch he sat on was arranged in an L-shape with another one exactly like it. With him sat another, an African man similarly dressed in an expensive navy suit. They laughed exuberantly at something. The African man drank from a tumbler that contained a brown liquid and some ice. I reckoned that some of the other West African looking gentlemen standing by themselves at the confectionery table, or in the far corner at the bo
