The Harry Gray Murder Case

Shortways might be, from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the godiest, the most violent, the lonesomeest mile in the world. Shortways might be, with very sore as Detective Danny Crovert. One at April, in the twilight's five briefly, Broadway abunes the starting position.

And Shortline marking the beginning of the race is composed of death of day, edge of night, the thousand kilowatt dash. And for the Victor, Secret Whisperies to be started with on evening wind, the light pools filled from street lamp were weight beyond dream dreams, shedding the wrappings of day, slipping already in the lace of neon and night.

On your mark, and bang, the night explodes. Run, here, run. So the Victor, the spoils of April night. And at headquarters, night watch, small trickle of minor violences to be interrogated, recorded. conversation concerning other April nightfalls with colleagues, outgoing tide of night, and somewhere in at the phone call.

About my buddy, he's been shot, he's dying, last friend club on West 41st Corinine, then. Who is this? Joe Rio's buddy to a dying buddy, you're gonna do something about a condition? And goldair, and the last friend, Travis, this, lost best tune with twistings of faded crate paper, hand-painted cardboard, stating address of nearest veterans' administration,

A state unemployment office, a bar and drill that private booths with daily specials for ex-servicement, and hung on piano wires over improvised stage, shield of an infantry company, and the man grinning up at it.

In case one of the boys get a slip shot about a boost payment, he'll be back in the room, put a spotlight on the shield, remain very quiet. Boy, remember? Boy, please. You said, yeah, yeah, over here.