The Artie Blanchard Case

Broadways My Beat, from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesome-est mile in the world. Broadways My Beat, with Larry Thor as Detective Danny Clover. Into February on Broadway now, near the tail end of the winter wind, the frantic wind that drifts the twips around corners that gathers itself into squalls out of the secret hiding

places it knows, then rushes down alley searching for what the world has left behind. And things happened. Earmuffs bloom under turned-down hats. Discarded newspapers winged low, then scurry over payments and wrapped themselves around hurrying feet.

And home suddenly becomes where the coffee is. Wind of February, beauty and nylon on a street corner. And above it where I was, where Detective Denison was on top of Hotel Marquis, platform over the street ringed by neon advertising rates in a Roomba band.

Platform also serving the purpose of catching the body of a man who jumped or was pushed. Hold the light over here in a minute, Danny. I'll take a look at his wallet. Thanks. Name's Artie Blanchard, home address upstate Utica.

Money in his wallet, too? Let's see. Mm, look here. Five $100 bills. About a half a dozen 50s. How much you find in his co-partite, Danny? A couple thousand, I guess, I didn't count it.

Must have been that much as Pat's part of the tour. Hold the light in that way. These bills aren't real. They're close enough to it to make me happy feeling them. No. No what? This man didn't jump.

All this money? Why should I? Stick around for technical, Dennis, and I'll see you later. So it was this. Entertainment for winter night. Look down over edge of marquee. And gathering to it, lifting face to it, the crowd people.