The Joan Gale Murder Case

Broadway's My Beat from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the godiest, the most violent, the lonesome smile in the world. With Larry Thor as detective Danny Clover. It's a bet to make a gun to dealers at night, on the blood and red of Leon, on the black of the searching wind, and the circle spins a whirlpool of gleaming laughter and splintered

whispers of shrieking steel on the silence of stone. You pray for a win, but it's no good. The red pays off in stained hands, and the black with dust in your mouth. That's how it falls on Broadway.

My beat. At four o'clock in the morning, Broadway is still. The spectacular Strauss and the neon's yawn, the sounds of the city whisper into the darkness. And last night's headlines fight a losing battle with the wind.

Then, it's a burglar alarm from the flower shop, and it's tearing its heart out. A part of her winking light of the forest sign found her face, then lost it in the shadows, then found it again.

She sat privileged in a wicked chair through which garlands of camellios and shining green leaves had been woven. Her hand had been pricked by the thorn of a rose she held. And from the light's outer eyes again they were mocking a slide.

Hey, what are you doing here? Oh, hi Danny. What makes? I heard a burglar laugh. Someone tripped it on their way out the back door. Oh, I left this damn here to heist rose petals?

petals. The Roman Meshachov do something for me. Sure, Danny. Want me to book her? Call homicide. Tell him there's been a murder. A murder for Mr. Clover, possibly incredible. Wait till the florist association hears in this.