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EVEN AMONG THE MASSES POPULATING West Palm Beach, Florida, Nolan Garrett found hundreds of places to be alone: in a packed corner deli, in the crush of tourists on a Sunday afternoon by the seawall, in his vintage Mustang on a deserted midnight street with the gas pedal down and the city’s finest asleep at the wheel. Tonight, in this seedy bar where the Latino beat was sultry and loud, the beer flowed as free as air, and smoke hung like rotor wash in a drop zone, he made sure he stayed alone.
The sharp crack of a cue sent a dozen pool balls scattering across worn green felt. He tuned