The Stacy Parker Murder Case

Broadway's My Beat from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesome-est mile in the world. Broadway's My Beat transcribed with Larry Thor as Detective Danny Covert. In the high noon blaze of July, Broadway walks soft, Broadway walks slow, the dreamwalk, the careful walk, rhythm to a regret for things that have not yet been, because other summers

have flowed in this street and other winds, and in their ebbing the erratic gutter dance of the litter of the season, the snapshot of the July bathing-duty torn in half, then torn again and once more. The phone number written in lipstick on a barroom napkin crushed, thrown against an alley wall, because it was a number that rang shrill on emptiness. No answer was

the code for last summer, but this time it'll be different, so walk into it, but soft. But in the east sixties in the apartment where I was, where Detective Mugaven was, July Sun, filtered and cooled by linen draperies, cut summer flowers floating in crystal vessels, sun dancing on the backs of tropical fish, drifting in glass cages.

The other thing, the man huddled in death, shot, murdered. The man doesn't strictly speak him along here, Danny. Oh. As near as I can make out, the apartment is owned by Johnny and Anna Lynn.

A couple of letters addressed to them that way in the desk. Snapshot album in the bedroom, got engraved, and it's covered the life of Johnny and Anal in. Nice looking couple. Real nice. A matchbook's got Johnny and Anal printed on them.

Good looking couple. Both of them. Man and the woman. Where'd you find on him? The usual stuff, things you well-addressed men in his profession would carry. Gold cigarette case, gold money clip with money. A wallet, alligator.