Michael Chabon goes up to the counter and orders an iced coffee. It makes sense to him. It’s cold outside and his drink should be, too. A shiver passes through him. He stares at his palm, where he’s incoherently diagrammed a series of complex chess moves. A bell tower in the distance strikes three times. His short, hairy companion lopes out into the street. The seventh-inning stretch is about to end.