The Charles Crandall Murder Case

God ways my beat from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the Godius, the most violent, the lonesomeest mile in the world. Broadway's my beat with Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. In the mid-afternoon light of Maytime, Broadway shimmers and langer walks the street.

The dreamwalk, rhythm to the pulse of the sleeping neon, to the sun-worn blues yawned out of loudspeakers, to the slow erratic dance of the litter of night held close, thrown away by a gutter wind.

And with the rest of Broadway you stand and watch, or follow the crowd, and lend your heart to the whispered cry that this day, this time, will not get away from you. But it does. It always does.

The web of blood in the alley was already dust heavy. Its threads leading you to the man huddled in a forgotten anguish against the flaking brick of an alley wall. His hand still touched to the bullet wound as if he tried to claw out the pain and never made it.

And the other man leaning over him being gentle and polite as he searched the dead man's pockets, then finding something and looking at it, then making the only observation left to him. It's a nice day, wasn't it, Danny?

What did you find, Muggaben? Found him like that, all broken up about the bullet in his chest. Tried to tell me why it was there. The word never got out. It was phoned in? Yeah, from the back room of a bar down the alley.

The friendly champ wanted out for a breath of fresh air, so this ran back to the bar made his phone call, but drinks for the house. He's still celebrating if you want to talk to him.