The John Webster Murder Case

My beat from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesome must mile in the world. Broadway is my beat with Larry Thor as detective Danny Clover.

Broadway where you walk through the October evening and hold close to things you want to save for memories. Then Broadway's as innocent and nostalgic as music drifting from the carousel. If you move on, you get hit in the face by a guy fishing for Nichols under a grating.

you're pursuing is gone now, lost. And Broadway trails off into the side street, walks them like I did. And try to close your eyes against the pattern of stars in the street of the tenement. The kids with the torn deck of cards into the lamp post, the dogs of the crash-pan, the wide-eyed girl who

lurks against me. That's all right. The spectacular simpher, the neon wing. You pick through the the litter of darkness and you'll buy, because on Broadway there's nothing else. And at the edge of Broadway, about where it touches the morning the night has been in partnership with them.

Their place of business but cleverly Marchuaries. A man is polishing a brass sign on his marble cassette he moves to consider his work. You see that the sign reads, easy payments inquire within. And within there's a sense of cut flowers and another man who leans against a marbur pillar.

The brow is lighter for the pink spotlight that's briefly hidden in the foliage of a proper palm, and he inhales the faint music of an electric organ. He sees you, firmly detaches himself from his rubbery, and attaches himself to you with a moist hand.