The Thelma Harper Murder Case

Broadway's might be from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomeest mile in the world. Mighty, the very floor as detective Danny Sobe, the Avenue of the Beggars, the greening alley of the scavengers who are dark in search and revel in a blaze of fury, then gather in the gutters of night.

There they come and settle out and compare the spoil salvaged from the litter of darkness. The materials are stained, the odds and ends of bitterness to trap the delusion. And you'll watch them and try to move away, but you can't.

You're one of them. It's Broadway, my beat. The room is dismal and cold, the walls are covered with many coats of green paint. You know that because initials have been gouged into them, because they're scars, or fingers have clawed at them.

If the room repain is brought in off the streets and wrapped in pearl gauze and sent on its way, a police emergency ward close to the East River. A girl wrapped in a brown blanket lined on the table in the center of the room, with the room and the nature of the light bulb draws the color out of her.

The glitter is on her bank here. And finally the man who has been bent over her thighs, shutters and finds you in a shadow. I'd like to cover you for a cigarette Danny. Sure, sure, yeah.

Hmm, fine. Well Dr. Pinkie, give me a moment. A girl? I'll never adjust to it. If a girl should be all right Danny, I think she'll be all right. Sure, it's on a time. This is a question Danny, that's where I called you.