RavensYard

The House: 1916

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Title: The House: 1916

Author: E.C. Norton

ISBN: 0966788346

Description:

There are millions of houses across the land, similar in so many ways, but each holds the unique experiences of the people and families who have called it home. Author E. C. Norton takes the reader on a journey behind the front door of one such home, a single-family frame home built in 1916 in Ridgewood, New Jersey, that would serve as the home for a series of unrelated residents for the rest of the century. These individuals and families were like others on all the other streets, and in all the other neighborhoods, in all the other towns across the country. They lived the life of the country -- they fought in wars, suffered economic hard times and struggled to adapt to the effects of population growth, social change, political corruption and age. Some succeeded, some didn't. But, taken together, their lives reflect the experience of the nation. Norton has painted a multilayered and nuanced portrait of one house in one town, and in so doing has vividly illuminated the rich life of the country.

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Excerpt: Chapter 1

September 21, 1916

The old horse stood patiently in the shafts, occasionally twitching away pesky flies. The street was quiet, no traffic on the dusty unpaved lane. The street had been cut through to the brook the year before. The wagon behind the horse contained fresh lumber and the smell of the new wood mixed with the heat of the afternoon.
    About 20 feet away two masons on their knees moved their trowels in wide arcs, smoothing the fresh cement of the walk leading up to the front porch. It was a two-story building, freshly shingled in unpainted wood, essentially a farmhouse, one of two on the street - the only two buildings on the street, the first development. The houses, though new, resembled many older buildings in this part of northern New Jersey, functional homes without much grace. The masons worked silently, two short, black-haired muscled men in denim shirts and work pants.
    The only sound was a faint regular tapping from inside the house. It came from the rear yard, out the open swinging doors of the cellar bulkhead. The noise was made by a carpenter putting risers on the cellar stairs. At the bottom of the street the low burble of the brook was broken by hoofs on the old wood bridge. A small carriage moved up the street. A bulky man wearing a cheap black coat, denim pants, and a straw hat dismounted at the new house and yelled, "Why is the horse in the sun?" The two masons looked up from their work, and stared at each other. One stood, obviously the older of the two workmen. He pointed inside.
    Henk Diemstra patted the dust from his coat and climbed the long steep driveway. It was just like Alf, he thought, to leave the horse in the sun, without water or feed. Diemstra walked with his distinctive rolling gait to the back-door steps, climbed the three steps and pushed open the wood door. His son Alf was seated, straddled legged on a saw horse, reading a newspaper.
    His partner, George Undercliff, came through the kitchen hall with a piece of molding in his right hand.
"Hi!" Alf Diemstra said, sliding off the saw horse at the sight of his father. George Undercliff smiled and stopped.
    "Why'd you leave the horse in the street, in the sun?" the older man asked without preliminaries.
    "I'm taking the rest of the load back in a few minutes, Pop. We won't need it all here. We're about done, except for the kitchen, and whoever buys this place will have to set that up the way they want it..."
    The older Diemstra grunted.
    "Where 's the other carpenter?" he asked.
    Alf Diemstra pointed to the floor. "Hey! Roger," he called.
    The hammering stopped and they heard steps on the cellar stairs, and a voice before they saw the figure.
    "I don't care what you say, Alf, we're gonna get into the war sooner or later. Mr.Wilson is not gonna keep us out forever." The tall, wiry young man appeared in the dark doorway on the last three words. He smiled at Henk Diemstra. Alf Diemstra laughed. "Roger here thinks that it doesn't matter whether Mr. Hughes or Mr. Wilson gets elected, that we ought to be in the war... I was just reading him Mr.Wilson 's speech he gave the other day in Ohio..."
    "Never mind that," Henk Diemstra said, studying the bare kitchen walls, with their exposed wiring. "I need to know when this place will be ready for showing."
    "Next week, Pop," Alf replied.
    "What are you doing in the basement, Roger?" Henk asked.
    "Setting some riser on the cellar steps," Roger Livby answered softly.
    "Risers?" Henk asked, looking to his 19-year-old son. "We don 't need risers on the stairs. Frills. Let the buyers put 'em in."
    Alf shrugged. "Roger thought the stairs would be safer if he put risers and a stair hold on."
    "All I asked you to do today is to finish the molding in the parlor," Henk said, color rising in his round, blunt-featured face. For the first time he focused on George Undercliff.
    "George has been doing just that, Pop," Alf said placatingly.
    "Well, Roger should help him. Forget the risers," Henk barked. The older Diemstra moved through the kitchen and into the hall toward the parlor. Alf looked at Roger sympathetically.
    "Well, you can't say I didn't warn you," Alf said. He stuck the newspaper section between the exposed wood lath in the wall.
    "Let me get my tools," Roger said, heading toward the stairs. He pulled his pocket watch out. Another hour and he would have had the risers and stair hold finished. Now old-man Diemstra was on the warpath again, all because the house wasn't finished. Roger, Alf and George had been working in it since mid-June, through the hot summer. Ten hours or more a day. Roger Livby took the seven o'clock trolley from Paterson each morning, a ten-cent ride through the cool mornings, a five-mile ride to the village of Ridgewood, the most pleasant part of his day. The big green interurban car was mostly empty, as passenger traffic was going the other way - workers on their way south to the large, old silk mill city, to labor behind red-brick walls, and in banks and other offices. Livby usually carried a tin lunch box, and in it the bread, cheese, meat and fruit his mother prepared each evening. Each morning the car glided to the shed on Ridgewood Avenue, a wide thoroughfare with large homes perched far back from the dusty roadway, homes that only bankers and mill managers could afford. Homes with ten rooms and three servants, quite unlike the small cramped rooms Roger Livby grew up in the Dublin section of Paterson with his parents.
    They lived over a hardware store on Grand Street. His parents were English. They arrived in New Jersey in 1889. Edward Livby worked in the Garner Mill, his wife Ettie had worked there for five years until Roger was born, their only child. English, they lived in the midst of Irish immigrants to the boisterous, active mill city on the Passaic River. Paterson, N.J., boasted that it was a fist of iron cloaked in silk. On upper Market Street the old locomotive shops still turned out the steam monsters that had connected the American nation, and had pulled other continents together.
    Roger Livby had gone through the second year of high school, at his mother's insistence. Neither she nor her husband had any education in a formal sense. But when Roger was 16 his father had his accident, nearly losing use of his left leg. Roger had to go to work. He got a job as a clerk in the hardware store downstairs, and that led to his interest in carpentry. But when he tried the city's contractors he found that they were all overburdened with apprentices. "Come back in a year," he was told. In a year the Livbys could be starved.
    Fortunately, Mr. Livby recovered, and he was put on the job. Roger had scouted the outlying areas. He almost found a position with a contractor in the booming town of Rutherford, to the east, and on the main rail line. It fell through, but he got a recommendation to go see Henk Diemstra who operated the coal and lumber company up in Ridgewood. Roger took the trolley and walked the mile and half to Diemstra's shabby office alongside the dark, dank pile of soft coal. It was a rainy day. Henk was poring over journal entries at his large desk when the Paterson youth walked in.
    "Paterson, eh?" Henk asked, suspiciously. "All my son Alf wants to do is play ball with the Panthers down there, but he ain't half that good. You play ball?"
    "No, sir," Roger replied "I'm a carpenter."
    "Want to be a carpenter, that is," Henk said. Behind his back Henk was known in his family as the "tight one." He was also respected by his churchgoing colleagues as a shrewd businessman, someone who had grown up on a small, subsistence farm in nearby Midland Park, and who without education, background or real connections, had started a business in 1894. It was a depression year, when many businesses had collapsed. There had been a coal company in the village for many years. Henk began his operations from a shed three miles out of town, in Midland Park. Soon he was known as the fellow who would make a coal delivery at any time of day, in any weather, and who would extend credit, a very unusual system at a time when coal was paid for at time of delivery.

Yorkville Christmas - Seven Small Miracles

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Title: Yorkville Christmas - Seven Small Miracles

Author: R.K. Vaughan

ISBN: 1928928153

Description:

These seven short stories set in Manhattan’s Yorkville neighborhood at Christmas time remind readers of the simple joy and gift of the Miracle at the heart of Christmas. Author R. K. Vaughan has written memorable holiday masterpieces that will enrich the lives of every family seeking to kindle the devotional joy, hope and love that comes alive in our hearts at Christmas time.

Rev. Angelo Gambatese, OFM, Pastor, St. Stephen of Hungary Church, New York, New York, writes about R. K. Vaughan's "Yorkville Christmas":

"These are wonderful Christmas stories, which, under Ray Vaughan's capable hands, awaken the ‘wide-eyed youngster’ in all of us on those magical Christmases of younger days when the most cynical of us believed that there were miracles to be hoped for. Christmas, he reminds us, is about light in the midst of darkness, love and joy often tinged with sadness and loss, gifts and wreaths and trees remembered from bygone days. Suffused with the warmth of childhood memories growing up in his beloved Yorkville and his insistence that the Birth of Jesus is the Christmas miracle that continues to change our world, these stories will bring smiles to the faces of our children-our Christmas miracles. Yorkville is a bustling neighborhood in the New York metropolis; but Vaughan reminds us that it is also that place of hopes and dreams that comes alive in our hearts at Christmas time."

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Excerpt:

The Gift (Christmas 1944)

It was four days before Christmas in 1944. The country was at war. Soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen were fighting in far-off places -- places 12-year-old Eddie Doyle was only studying about in his sixth grade geography class -- Italy, France and Belgium in Europe… and the Philippine, Solomon and Marianna islands in the great expanse of the Pacific Ocean.
    This particular afternoon, late in the day, Eddie also was at war, his own private war with himself. He was standing in the aisle of Nichol’s Variety Store, staring at a doll. The red-haired youth was too old to play with dolls, but his seven-year old sister, Jennifer, was not. And this doll, with its long, golden curls, angelic face and soft, rubbery body was the one she had specifically asked Santa Claus to bring her.
    At 12, Eddie was also too old to believe in Santa Claus. Nevertheless, he went along with the myth when Jennifer asked him to help her write a letter to the legendary gift-giver. That was why he was staring at the doll. With just a week to go before Christmas, he knew Santa Claus would not be bringing the much-desired plaything to his sister. Because he knew his mother wasn’t going to be able to do it         Cathy Doyle just couldn’t afford it, having been left with the two children and a widow’s insurance annuity when her husband became a casualty of war in 1942. He had been a merchant seaman, first mate on a tanker that had sailed from New York harbor with a cargo of fuel oil for allied forces overseas.     It had barely cleared the Narrows off Staten Island when it was blown to pieces by a torpedo from one of the German U-boats that regularly and silently patrolled under the waters offshore seeking such prey. Cathy Doyle collapsed when she first heard the news and wept almost constantly for days. Eventually, knowing she had to do it for her children’s sake, she pulled herself together and, with her annuity and earnings from her part-time job as a receptionist for the neighborhood doctor, she was making ends meet in the wartime economy – barely.
    Poor Jenny, Eddie thought. She doesn’t have much. It would be nice to leave her with something – even if it’s just a belief in a jolly old saint in a red suit. Now she ain’t even going to have that. Mom can’t afford to blow $20 on a doll – even a doll like this. Eddie’s eyes wandered around the store, taking in the twirled loops of red and green crepe paper hanging around the store, the wreaths and Christmas lights gaily festooning the walls. His survey ended when his eyes came to the door nearby – about 20 feet away.
    His gaze came back again to the doll. Slowly, as the sound of Kate Smith singing “Silver Bells” began playing from the store’s public address system, he began checking the surrounding area again. It looked like everybody was busy shopping. No cops in sight. The salesgirl was busy behind the counter. He could grab the doll, shoot out the door and be halfway home before she ever got out from behind the counter.
    His heart began to pound in his chest. He had never stolen anything before, but Jennifer had never wanted anything so much – or so expensive – before. His mouth was dry, his stomach churning. It was like the feeling he had when he went to the line to shoot two fouls shots that would put his team into the Catholic Youth Organization finals a week ago. He made both foul shots, and he felt he could pull this off, too.
    Gingerly, he reached out to touch the prize, deciding he would make it seem as though he were looking for the price. Just as his hand began to tighten on the box – the prelude to his dash for the door – a voice behind him said: “Aren’t you too old to play with dolls?”
    Eddie turned to be confronted by a boy about his age with a striking smile that, in other circumstances he would have warmed to instantly.
    “And you’re too good to steal one, too.” The other boy continued, lowering his voice. His eyes stared frankly, and disconcertingly, into Eddie’s.
    “I… I wasn’t trying to steal it,” Eddie whispered, feeling the warmth of his blush creeping up the side of his face. “I was just looking for the price tag,” he mumbled, wondering who this strange kid was and why he looked so familiar.
    “Sure,” replied the other boy. “And I’m the store detective, just like that gorilla over there.” Eddie’s head turned to follow the thumb jerked in the direction of the door. Sure enough, there was a large man in a brown suit and fedora standing to the side of the door, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes constantly moving from one counter to the next, seemingly alert to every movement of every customer on the floor. Eddie felt his knees wobble even as he wondered how he could have missed the man. The wonderment was quickly replaced by imagined visions of himself in the clutches of the security guard, the store manager, the police and, inevitably, his mother. He felt sick to his stomach.
   “Aahh, who needs it?” he said, slamming the boxed doll back on the counter shelf. “It was a dumb idea thinking I could get it for my sister, anyway.”
    “Well, it was dumb to think she’d like something that was stolen – and to think you would actually enjoy giving it to her knowing it was stolen.”
    “Who are you, my conscience?” Eddie asked with an embarrassed smile as he pushed a lock of red hair from his forehead. Ordinarily, Eddie’s temper would have flared if anyone else had confronted him the way this open-faced, smiling youngster had. But, he admitted to himself, the boy had saved him from making a bad mistake. Plus, there was something about his manner that suggested: Relax. I’m a friend.
    Eddie pulled his woolen cap onto his head and began buttoning up his green and blue plaid mackinaw before returning to the relative comfort of Eighty-Sixth Street and Third Avenue, where the winter air might stop him from sweating. The other boy, dressed virtually the same except for the colors, buttoned up his coat too and slipped the hood over his head. The two pushed through the revolving doors and stepped outside to hear the rattle of a Third Avenue elevated train going by and to see a light snow beginning to fall. Eddie looked up at the snow as it floated gently down past the light of the lamppost and the traffic lights at the corner of Eighty-sixth Street and Third Avenue.
    Then, looking at his new friend, he said, “Thanks. Do I know you? You look familiar.” “My name is Jay,” he said. “We’ve never been introduced, but we’ve seen each other around the neighborhood.”
    “Mine’s Eddie.”
    “Nice to meet you.”
    “Look, I gotta get to choir practice. It’s almost 5 o’clock.”
    “I’ve seen you at St. Ignatius during the high mass and I can even say I’ve heard you during the procession down the aisle to the choir loft. You’ve got a nice voice, you know, but you seem to just go through the paces. You don’t show much feeling. If you ask me…”
    “I didn’t ask you, okay?” Eddie responded harshly, and then was immediately sorry when he saw the hurt cloud his newfound friend’s eyes. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that I can’t get into the mood. Sometimes I think I just sing because my little sister likes it.”
    “I know. I’ve seen her watch you. Her eyes light up like a neon sign as you go by. That ought to get you into the mood. And, if not that, how about Christmas?”
    “How about Christmas? There’s nothing so special about Christmas. I’m just as poor at Christmas as I am the rest of the year – maybe even worse, because I feel it more right now. I can’t even buy Jenny that doll she wants so bad. What’s more, I can’t even get a part-time job to work for it because I have to go to choir practice or my mom will have a conniption.”
    “Yeah, but you’ll be singing in the choir on Christmas Eve and that’s special. Gee, I think everything about Christmas is special. Anything can happen at this time of year. I don’t know… call it the magic of Christmas… the spirit …miracles… even Santa Claus. Heck, I don’t know how to say it, but Christmas is a very special time. I believe in Christmas, Eddie.”
    “Next thing you’ll be telling me you believe in the tooth fairy,” Eddie said. “Naah! Fairies are not real. The spirit of Christmas is real – at least, to me. Listen, I have to peel off and head home. I’m glad you changed your mind about the doll. Besides, I think you’ll find a way to earn it for her.”
    “Yeah, sure, and when I sing I’m John McCormack,” Eddie said invoking the name of the great Irish tenor. “But, anyway, thanks for setting me straight in there,” Eddie said, nodding his head in the direction of Nichol’s.
    “Yeah. See you around,” Jay responded. He held out his hand, which Eddie took and was immediately surprised by the strength in Jay’s grip. It didn’t seem to fit with his gentle eyes and open smile.
    As Jay backed away toward 87th Street, Eddie gave a final wave and turned to walk in the opposite direction, to 84th and Park Avenue where the church of St. Ignatius of Loyola took up the entire west side of the avenue extending toward 83rd Street and halfway up to Madison Avenue. St. Ignatius Loyola School, where Eddie was in the sixth grade and Jenny in the first, was right behind the church on 84th.

Yellow Fever

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Title: Yellow Fever

Author:  Ted Neachtain

ISBN: 0966788311

Description:

Yellow Fever is a historical novel set at the turn of the 20th Century as the United States emerges as an imperial power, partly as a result of the newspaper war being waged by Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst. The folly, danger, hubris and excitement of that era is skillfully portrayed by the Ted Neachtain, a former newsman. Set in New York, Washington, Tampa, and Havana the suspense page-turner features a young reporter who becomes involved with leading figures of the day -- including a show girl who turns out to be lethal lover. Among the historical characters featured in the novel are Theodore Roosevelt, who rises from New York Police Commissioner to President of the United States, publishers Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst, writer Stephen Crane and reporter Richard Harding Davis, Gen. John Pershing and a variety of well rendered characters. All these characters – including Rough Riders and Buffalo Soldiers – are thrown into the brief, bloody Spanish-American War in Cuba, where the United States loses its innocence in the ambitions, folly and heat of the Cuban battle fields.
    Yellow Fever was written by Ted Neachtain. The author, a former US Army officer, is a former newsman from New York and New Jersey. Neachtain spent years in competitive metropolitan newspaper battles and is intimately familiar with the nuances of newspaper life. He is also an expert on the United States at the turn of the Century and has painted an exciting portrait of the age.
    Some of the themes explored in the book are the use of manufactured publicity to affect government policy, the birth of the celebrity culture, the folly of ego and pride in international affairs, and the misplaced use of force to bring about social change. At the same time, Neachtain writes a lively narrative that explores the “what might have been’s” with some of the historical features of the day.

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Highlights

It was the end of a century. A new kind of war raged on Manhattan streets: Medium Moguls fighting for newspaper circulation, and brewing a war to free an oppressed small nation. A young, naive reporter finds himself in the midst of it all, including murder, together with famed correspondents Richard Harding Davis and Stephen Crane:

• "Davis left a trail of broken noses, and among the ladies, broken hearts. He never sought fisticuffs, but many times he defended his own, or a friend's honor."

The reporter finds himself entangled with a seductive showgirl:

• "Annie sat in a plush chair as we talked. Her wrapper fell open, revealing a white nightgown. And some ankle. But she made no move to close it. I thought it odd that it was nearly 3 p.m., and she was still wearing a nightgown. But, I didn't make a comment on it."

The period was one of expansion, exuberance, and experience:

• "Lately, there have been certain books, and films about the era, and a phrase has been coined, The Gay Nineties. It's a false phrase, I believe. There was little gay about the period, now that I look back on it.

And, the plight of Cuba:

• "I hadn't known that many Americans wanted to free Cuba. Or that they had mounted armed expeditions for that purpose. "
• "Those people will get you killed," Crane said pleasantly, before downing another cocktail.

Manhattan, murder, and a war all wrapped up in the screaming headlines of yesterday's newspapers.

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Excerpt from Chapter 1:

MARCH 1896 - NEW YORK

The first time I saw Richard Harding Davis was at 4:30 p.m. on a rainy Tuesday in March 1896. He was sitting in my chair. Well, it wasn't really my chair. It was the chair and desk that Mr. Chapin, the assistant city editor of The World, had told me to use when I returned from my assignment. Desks and chairs were sparse in those days for freelancers working on space rates for New York City newspapers.
    I had waited for two days for an assignment from Chapin, and now, as I stood dripping rain behind the chair, it looked like I would have to do battle for the chance to write it before deadline.
    The story was simple enough. About 11 that morning a body had been pulled from the lower East River. They called them "floaters" in those days. For all I know they still call them that. But it's been some time since I was last near the East River. At my age I don't pay attention to such things, though I do read the New York papers, and they still do devote much coverage to what we called "police news." Some things never change.
    The police news assignment was my chance to get a position on the staff of The World. New York newspapers in those days worked with permanent staff, and a floating staff of freelancers who worked on space rates. The freelancers were generally men who could not latch onto a permanent job because they drank too much, or otherwise were unreliable. Some were young men like myself who had come into Manhattan from other towns, other newspapers, looking for a chance. It wasn't difficult to get an assignment as a freelancer, but it was tough to shine at it. The permanent staff got the best assignments, and a freelance needed luck. It was with me that day.
    Mr. Chapin had called me over that afternoon and told me to chase the floater. His regular police beat reporters were busy with other work. It seemed a simple two-paragraph item, at best. I thanked Mr. Chapin and walked rapidly out of the third-floor city room. I didn't wait for the slow elevator. I bolted for the stairs. This was my chance to show my stuff.
    I ran down Park Row to South Street in a light rain. I wasted precious minutes hunting for the pier where some longshoremen had found a body tangled in the pilings. By the time I arrived the police and dock workers had fished the corpse out of the dirty river. They hadn't covered it, and no one seemed to be looking around for a blanket. They just stood there and nervously stared at the body.
    I introduced myself. Two policemen, beefy fellows in tight uniforms, grunted. Then they looked down at the girl. She was about 20, I guessed. Pretty, very pretty, though her hair was all tangled. She wore a brown dress, but no coat. Rain sprinkled her face. Her arms were out flung, as if she were reaching for something. Nothing in this life.
    "Do you know who she is?" I asked, looking from face to face. One of the policemen grumbled, "Ah, them coroners' men can look through her pockets. I've not the heart for it." His brogue matched his red face. I knelt and searched for pockets in the twisted, soaked dress. There were none. The girl looked like she would awaken at any moment, and scream at my impertinence.
    "She doesn't seem to have any wounds. No bullet or knife holes," I said.
    "No," the second cop agreed. His helmet was too small for his large head. "From the looks of her, I would say she was a jumper. From the bridge." He looked upriver in the mist, toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
    I stood there nervously wondering how I was going to turn an anonymous death as this one was, into a job on The World. To tell the truth, until that point the only other corpse I had ever seen was my grandmother, who had died three years earlier, when I still lived in Pittsfield.
    I had been a newspaper reporter in Pittsfield, but I had left there a month before, deciding that I must work on The World. It was the newspaper, the one all newspapermen worth their salt read, and wanted to work for. They considered it to be the stuff, in a term of the day. That meant that it was the most important rag in the United States. Joe Pulitzer had made The World the single most influential paper anywhere. "Well, she ain't goin' anywhere," said one cop. He walked to the end of the pier. I looked at the dock workers. "Do you have anything we could cover her with. We can't leave her like this." A man nearly black with coal dust returned with a dirty oil cloth.
    Within the hour the body was taken away by the coroner's in a battered ambulance. I walked down to the coroner's office, where I waited for an hour until a note brought a distracted doctor to my side.
    "Are you a relative?" he asked. I mumbled something which he didn't hear.
    "She died by drowning. She has a broken arm. Probably happened when she hit the water." He sighed.
    "She was also pregnant."
    He asked me to wait, to sign some papers. I told him I would return. He shrugged and went back into his workroom.
    I trudged through the wet streets to police headquarters near Mulberry. The sergeant at the main desk had no more information than the original telegraph report of a floater. I went up to the second floor detectives' office. There, with his fat legs up on a wicker waste basket pulled close to his swivel chair, a red-face detective sat smoking a long cigar. He had just come from a saloon, I discovered soon enough when he breathed in my direction.
    "What in hell you want?" he barked, as I looked nervously around the room.
    The desks were in disarray, papers everywhere. Nothing seemed in order. I told him about the girl. He snorted, and then shifted the cigar in his mouth. "Another goddam leaper. We get two, three a day in here. Don't pay much attention to them. Somebody comes by and gives us an identity, we'll go over to the morgue. Girls killing themselves everyday in this town, fella."
    "You'd be surprised how fast folks forget ya." I left him to his cigar and inertia. At this stage I was worried that this assignment was not going to turn out as I had planned. In fact, I doubted that I had more than a few brief paragraphs about the girl's death. Nothing much to recommend me to Mr. Chapin, let alone Joe Pulitzer.
    I stood out in the rain for some time, depressed and wondering if I shouldn't just buy a ticket back to Pittsfield while I still had the funds. I didn't have a hat and the rain trickled down my neck. For no important reason, I returned to the coroner's office. I was in luck, if you could call it that.
    I arrived, shaking rain from my tweed coat, to see a distraught woman questioning the doctor with whom I had spoken. She said she was looking for her niece. She gave a description, and it fitted the dead girl. The doctor nodded, and took her into his workroom. I followed. There, on a large metal tray, lay the girl. The doctor had not sewn her back up. The woman took one look, and fainted. We carried her outside. The doctor helped me bring her around. Despite the shock, the woman began to speak. Between sobs, she told me the story. The dead girl's name was Jeanne Armiter, from Peekskill, where her parents lived. She was 21, and she had come to Manhattan the year before, to work. Her parents let her go, the aunt said, on the proviso that she live with the aunt. Miss Armiter had worked in a small department store on East 15th Street. In the hat department.
    When I asked if Jeanne had a beau, the aunt nearly fainted again. She mumbled a name, that of a fellow who was a clerk in the same shop. I had enough at that point. I rudely looked at my pocket watch. It read: 4:05 p.m. I hadn't much time. I bolted from the coroner's office. It has bothered me since that I didn't properly apologize to the aunt. But, it's too late for that now.
    After running back to Park Row, and up the grimy staircase to the third floor, was also worried that I would be out of luck because I wouldn't have time to pull it together for Mr. Chapin. Fortunately, he was not in sight when I headed for the desk and chair he had told me earlier I could use. It was near one of the dirty, smudged windows, but I was glad it had some milky light.
    It also had an occupant. It was easy enough to recognize Richard Harding Davis sitting lazily in the chair I wanted to be in. He wore a light gray suit, high collar and tightly knitted tie of small red and white stripes. He smoked a cigarette, a novelty in that room of cigar smokers and chewers. Davis was recognizable from the Gibson pen and ink portraits of him in all the leading magazines. Davis was the epitome of the New York man-about-town. He was a man's man, and also crushing with the Ladies.
    He must have felt my sweaty presence behind him, because he turned in his chair, and said, "Oh, hello. You must be a new fellow. My name is Davis," he said, smiling. "Say hello to Steve Crane." He nodded to a sallow-looking young fellow slumped in the next chair. Crane nodded. I barely nodded in return.
    "You should really carry an umbrella," Davis said. "The fellows here will laugh at you, but, you'd keep dry."
    I shot a nervous look at the big wall clock which ran the lives of all in that building. It was getting late, and I decided that, star reporter or not, Mr. Davis would have to be dislodged. "Mr. Davis, I"m sorry, but Mr. Chapin told me to sit here when I returned from assignment. I don't have much time." Davis immediately popped out of the chair.
    "Sorry, fellow. Didn't realize you were working here. C'mon Steve, let's go get a drink." With a nod, Davis walked away, followed by the barely awake-looking Crane. He, I noticed before grabbing paper and pencil, was more poorly dressed than I was. Crane was never much of a dresser, and this failing caused many to think he was a lazy Bohemian, instead of a serious journalist and writer. Crane was serious about many things, but not the ones that counted for first impressions.
    I bent to my writing. I had composed a lead paragraph in my head while trotting back to Park Row, and it flowed easily, but the second and third pages were difficult. After that I had no trouble writing. I stopped at six pages, and walked nervously to Mr. Chapin's desk.
    He sat at a desk on a raised platform. We later came to call it "The Pulpit." Chapin looked at my pages, then said, without looking up at me, "Didn't think you'd come back." I mumbled something and wandered back to my chair. Within minutes a copyboy, a youth named Rosenbloom, with a large nose, came by and said, "Mr. Chapin said to keep it coming." He wanted more. I was surprised. I had enough color notes to describe the dead girl in detail, her clothing, and the look on the policemen's faces. I put everything I had into the story. Naturally, I didn't write anything about the doctor telling me she had been in the family way. We did not refer to such things in those days. I gave Chapin the extra pages. He was busy reading through a pile of copy before him, snapping orders to a squad of copyboys, and occasionally laughing at something only he saw as funny. Before I left the World building that night I stopped at his desk and asked if there was anything he wanted me to handle the next day.
    He looked up, startled. "See me tomorrow," he grunted in his sour way. I left, and to save carfare, walked to 23rd St. and Seventh Avenue, where I had a small room in a cheap boardinghouse.
    I was in the city room by noon the next day. I grabbed a paper, scanned the front page, and was surprised to see my story on it, under a double-column headline which read:

            Woman Drowned
            Aunt Identifies Niece
            Tells How Girl Lived And Died

I was in such shock that I could not make out the words I had written only the day before. I sat numbly at a desk. The copy editors had shortened my story. It was not quite as florid as I had written it, but essentially it was the same. I felt a pat on my back as I reread it. I turned to see Richard Harding Davis standing behind my chair. "Nice job, that," he said, smiling. "Had a nice feel to it. Most of them, you know, they aren't as neat. I've had my share of floaters." He nervously readjusted his derby. "Keep that up and you'll soon be on staff." He laughed. "They'll probably have to put you on staff to keep you from making too much money doing freelance. "Say, what are you doing for lunch? I'm to meet Crane. He won't mind if you come along. But first I think you ought to tell me who you are. I already know your name, of course, but it would be polite of you to introduce yourself." He laughed again, an easy laugh. I stood. "My name is James Comming Botwright, and I'm from Pittsfield, Massachusetts. I graduated from Yale, and I've worked on a paper in Pittsfield." I also bowed. A minutes later we were walking on Park Row, heading for a German beer hall Davis said served the best wurst in town. The phrase made him laugh, so he repeated it a few times for his own enjoyment.
    Davis was in excellent spirits that day, but then RHD always seemed to grasp life by both handles. I didn't know it at the time, but Dick Davis did not take up with every tramp reporter he came across. In fact, he snubbed most of the breed.
    Crane was waiting for us when we got to the beer hall in Chambers Street. He looked the same, sallow, unshaven, and wearing what seemed like the same suit of dusty black coat and unpressed trousers.
    "Steve, meet Jim Botwright of Yale and Pittsfield, Mass. He wants to be a reporter." Crane smiled. Dick called for beers and platters.
    "Of course, gentlemen, you're my guests." He said it forcefully, to quash any possible protest. There was none. In truth, I was nearly flat broke.
    The beer arrived and we raised our steins in toast. "To adventure, and to report it," Dick said. Crane grunted. When the food was before us, Crane and I dug in, while Dick talked, and only picked at his plate. The wurst, I recall, was as good as Davis had promised. That was the day of the good 25-cent lunch, including a large slice of apple pie for dessert. I had been making do for weeks on free lunches in saloons. I had quickly tired of day-old boiled eggs and older cold cuts. I can remember that meal as if it were yesterday. Funny, I can't remember right off what I ate yesterday. The memory plays tricks.
    Davis turned to me and asked what I wanted to do. I rubbed the wet stein on the wood bench before answering.
    "Well, I'd like to get a chair on The World. I haven't done any writing outside of newspapers."
    "I think you'll get your wish," Dick said. "But, for me, I'd rather work for Mr. Hearst. He's more liberal with his pocketbook. Mr. Pulitzer (he pronounced it 'Pew-litzer') is too cranky for me. I'm doing specials for Hearst. Want to keep my hand in, y'know. Sort of miss the run. I had a fine time on The Evening Sun. Jolly fine pals, there.
    "I don't quite understand why you continue to write for newspapers when you can get $500 from Scribner's?" I said.
    "It's the excitement, of course," Davis said. After Davis paid the bill we stood for a moment on the pavement, enjoying the sun which had broke through the clouds which had covered the city for days. Crane smiled and marched off down the street. Davis watched him go.
    "That fellow has a wonderful future, if he lasts," he said in a low, serious voice.
    We walked back to The World, chatting about New York. Chapin greeted us in the city room with a scream, "Goddamit. Where in hell have you been? Anyone who wants to work for The World had better be in this newsroom when an editor needs him. Chapin had a whining bark, a snarl one never got used to. It terrified most of the staff. Strangely, it didn't bother me that day.
    "He was my guest at lunch, Mr. Chapin," Davis said easily. Chapin looked at Davis and walked away stiffly.
    "Sit down. He'll forget it," Dick said. Davis treated Chapin as he would any other person, despite     Chapin's rank and personality. Much has been said in jest about Richard Harding Davis, but the truth was he was a gentleman, even when he was dealing with the rude and nasty individuals we met in high and low places in our work. He went to war repeatedly, but Dick never lowered his standards, not even when he was on a dirty battlefield one thousand miles due east from civilization.
    Many blackguards learned to their dismay that Davis brooked no scorn for his manner, or dress. Davis left a trail of broken noses, and among the ladies, broken hearts. He never sought fisticuffs, but many times he defended his own, or a friend's honor. Many fools miscalculated and saw only the Brooks Brothers finery, and not the heavyweight's muscle underneath it. Davis was not intimidated by princes, kings or queens. Or even newspaper publishers. Or even such fearsome creatures as city editors like Chapin. He treated them with the same respect he showed to waiters. A man like Chapin must have realized that he was unable to terrorize Davis and that realization made Chapin nervous around Davis.   
    I often think today about my awareness in those days--what I knew, and what I thought I knew. I knew that I wanted to be I knew I could make it, with the right breaks. I was nothing if not optimistic.
    What I didn't know would fill books, perhaps one like this. I didn't know that the war going on between Mr. Hearst and Mr. Pulitzer had wider application than how many papers each sold in the dirty-opulent, rich-poor city. Or, that I would become one of the active participants in this war. Or that I would help push the United States into war, a war as simple and short as ever engaged in. or, as stupid a war ever to take the time and talents of Americans. And a war that killed.
    I knew nothing then of war. Oh, yes, wars were fought in places like Greece, where Stevie Crane and Dick Davis had gone. But the America I knew had been at peace for 30 years. War was old-fashioned.
    I met many of the players in the game that led to the battleground. I don't mind admitting that at the time I didn't understand, or suspect their motivations, or drives. I didn't always understand my own. It took years before I understood the forces that pushed me. I'm not entirely certain now that I understand them completely. Maybe that's maturity. All I know is that the world seemed to be 1,000 yards ahead in that foot race.
    I cannot honestly say that I realized that in one day. It took some time, but we had that in those days. Nothing but time.
    Later that same afternoon, as I sat ignored by the irate Chapin, I noticed two other men at his desk. One was tall, with a Van-Dyke beard. He was dressed all in black, like a mortician. He was waving his arms, and I could hear his rambling oaths across the city room.
    "That son of a bitch mayor is not going to tell me where my delivery wagons cannot go. I will not stand for it, you hear." Chapin and the other man tried to calm the tall man.
    I heard Chapin say, "We'll take care of it, sir. Don't you worry about it. Don't you worry." The bearded fellow spun on his heel and waved one arm angrily. Then he started to topple. He had collided with a deep metal trash bin. For a second it was as if the bearded man would fall head first into it. The soft-spoken man caught him in time, however, and righted him. Then the tall man was led by the arm out a nearby door.
    And so I got my first look at Joe Pulitzer.

The Sun's Nightside

Buy: Amazon

Title: The Sun's Nightside

Author: Liam O'Connell

ISBN: 0966788397

Description:

In the early 1970s, New York City woke up to the consequences of aging factories, a failed welfare system and corruption that corrodes the heart -- no matter the noble intent. This book features F. X. Quill, Nightside reporter for The Sun, New York City's must-read tabloid, as a chronicler of a world that lies around the corner, behind closed doors and hidden from the light. Quill works at a time when the tools of the reporter's trade were notepads, pens, typewriters and dial phones that cost only a dime. This story follows Quill as he exposes crime for the city's working people who are devoted readers of The Sun. Quill digs into the truth behind the unexplained death of an unidentified teen in a Queens flophouse and uncovers a web of deceit and corruption in the city's welfare system, a street gang used as enforcers by a shadowy religious cult, its charismatic leader and greedy politicians bent on dominating the city treasury who will use murder, kidnapping and torture to get their way. 
    The Sun's Nightside introduces reporter F. X. Quill and his world of Queens and Manhattan and the life he leads at night exposing crime for the city's must read daily tabloid The Sun.  A sequel to this volume entitled is Still Life, Still Life. 

___________________________ 

Excerpt from Chapter One:

"Quill!"
    I'd heard that shout plenty that night above the din and clatter of the city room and, like all the others, it got me up and to the head of the long, busy oak table that is The Sun's city desk.
    "Go home." Molloy said. "And on your way, check this out."
    He was holding a teletype message from police headquarters and, like all the other slips, I took it, said nothing and walked back to my desk on the rewrite bank.
    The roman numerals on the clock above the city room's switchboard told me it was ten minutes past midnight, a full 50 minutes until the end of my shift. Maybe the slip will be nothing, I thought, and I could get home a few minutes early. I like a good story as well as the next guy, maybe more than most, but I'd worked hard that night. And Molloy will give you a slide, let you beat the company out of some time, If he thinks you've worked your wages.  As I put on my overcoat and got my gear together, I even felt confident enough to think that Molloy might finally be doing me a favor. Then I read it.

PRESS 46 2230 HRS 100 PCT
AT 2180 HRS RM 29 PALACE HOTEL 35-99 JOSHUA ST CORONA
UNID W/F 209 DOA
NO FUR INFO TS TM ZZZZZZZ
OPR O'BRIEN CSS VIA KEYS 5 8 10 14 BELL

Some favor. I'd be working right up to one o'clock in a neighborhood I didn't like much. Molloy knew I live in Flushing, two miles east of Corona and that I could get off the el four stops early, check the slip out by one o'clock. Getting home would be my problem. He's a real pal.
    Molloy was probably curious why a white girl gets dead in a flophouse where black people live. I guess I was curious too, but not that curious. I was tired. The slip in my hand was the sixth for me that night. The others had taken four hours of phone work and two hours of legwork to find out there wasn't a story in them good enough to bump out another story from the one-, two- and three-stars.
    No matter. To Molloy, even though slips take time and work, all maybe for nothing, he wants them all worked, checked out hard. Slips are about people, like those who read The Sun. We let the Intellectual sheet across town and the chic set that buys it worry about the cosmology of world affairs. The Sun and the working people that buy it worry about the neighborhoods of this town and the people in them.
So when slips come over they get worked, checked out. Only reporters do the checking. Molloy does the sitting. And neither of us knew that doing our job that night would lead to one of the best stories The Sun's ever had.
    I walked back to Molloy. "You want me to call in something for the five?"
    He pointed to the exit in the rear of the City Room. "Just get there and call me with what you've got."
    His expression made clear he wanted me gone two minutes ago, so without further comment from me, I made the five minute walk to Grand Central and waited there a couple more minutes for the Flushing IRT to Queens. There were five people on the platform with me; none got onto the car I did. Except for a drunk passed out by an empty motorman's booth at the front of the car, I was alone.
I ignored him and thought through how much time I had. I'd give it 40 minutes. Even though the five-star doesn't go to bed until maybe 1:15 a.m., whatever I got had to be in Molloy's hands by one.
    Knowing how much time I had, I started to feel the pressure. With Molloy on The Sun's Nightside, you get this thing about the clock, about deadlines. Dayside has all day to make the one-star deadline at five o'clock. That's plenty of time. But news doesn't happen to satisfy Dayside's schedule; plenty happens in this town after sundown.
    Starting at five o'clock, as The Sun's presses roll through two million tabloids downstairs, Molloy's Nightside staff reports, writes and edits stories by press run deadline. At seven o'clock its the two-star, nine o'clock the three-star, eleven o'clock the four-star. We get a bit of a breather with the five-star. Its run isn't until about one fifteen, depending on the number of papers we're printing. But Molloy doesn't believe in overtime, union overtime costs being, what they are; so everything for the five-star has got to be done by one. And we hump it, all night long. As a result, Nightside reporters develop an anxiety rhythm patterned on deadlines at 7 p.m., 9 p.m., 11 p.m. and 1 a.m.
    We'd crossed under the East River and the sound in the car changed as it started to climb out from underground in Long Island City onto the el above Roosevelt Ave.
    Thirty-five minutes.
    The light rain had wet the tracks, shorting out the circuit, causing the lights in the car to blink on and off.  Out of the car's windows I saw the reflection of the Manhattan skyline on the windows of the factories and warehouses of Long Island City, many now abandoned and idle since their owners had moved the work out of town. The wino in the corner groaned and rolled over onto his back. Cracked leather and brown paper bags covered his feet; three overcoats, each one ragged and slick from filth, wrapped his body. Dried vomit was smeared on the left side of his face, matting his beard.
    I looked away and back outside again at the empty factories of eastern Queens. I'd covered more stories that I'd liked about this zipper outfit laying off 500 it didn't want to move to new digs in North Carolina, or that watch band maker pink slipping 370 some who wouldn't leave their homes in Brooklyn and Queens to move to the Mississippi River Delta.
    It all made me point my face into the three-star. My byline appeared once, a signer under a three-graph brief on page forty-six. Big deal. It was a rewrite of a handout from the special prosecutor's office about hiring a bunch of new hot shots. It didn't deserve my name under it. But Molloy says if Nightside does something Dayside doesn't or forgets, the line goes on.
    The train stopped at Junction Blvd. and., when it started up again, I stopped reading, buttoned and belted my overcoat, dropped the tab on the seat next to me and put my hands into my gloves.
    Thirty minutes.
    I reached up and grabbed the aluminum strap-hanger just as momentum swung my body forward as the train slowed, and sharply back, when it stopped at 104th Street. The doors slid open with a whoosh of air. I moved onto the wooden elevated ramp. I could hear that the snow had turned to rain. It fell upon the corrugated tin roof overhead. Thirty feet along and I skipped down the stairway out onto Roosevelt Avenue. I had no hat or umbrella, so I pulled the collar of my overcoat tight around my neck to keep warm and began the trek to The Palace Hotel.
    The best way to avoid getting jumped is to look like you know where you're going, so I kept my gate brisk. I knew anyway. The Palace is in a slimy section of Corona., a no man's land of dirt lawns and trash littered streets, lined with lousy housing.
    I looked for a cab, but the hacks weren't there. Two blocks from Roosevelt Avenue, the street got darker. I could see rusted fixtures in the street lights, which had been shot or blown out and left unfixed. Nobody had bothered to come by and do the job.
    Not long back the neighborhood was okay, and lights like that would have been fixed pronto. The Italians who lived there didn't like crime and had the clout to get their way. That's when I'd done a story about The Palace. It was a hooker joint then where Johns would pay the boss a buck to use a room for a half-hour. But the neighbors got wise, called the cops who then pulled a raid and shut the joint down.
    Things in Corona were like that then. But as poor Blacks and Latinos from down South moved to the city, the whites in neighborhoods like Corona got scared and moved out, taking their money and prosperity with them. It left the newcomers behind in poverty, more and more dependent on government programs more and more businesses moved south to avoid. Old story.
    As for the hookers who'd worked The Palace, I'd heard they'd moved their business to the alleys around Queens Plaza, the railroad switching station in Long Island City. Commuters on the Long Island Railroad would get off the train there, get their rocks off, get themselves back on the train and go home to their families in Nassau or Suffolk. With that The Palace had become like dozens of other flophouses, home to ex-mental patients, welfare types, derelicts, dope fiends and assorted weirdoes. At least that's what I'd heard.
    I turned back again to look for a hack. Nothing, The only cars on the street were parked, abandoned or stripped at curbside. I stepped on a crushed beer can, and the sound of metal ripping against the pavement tore through the air. I quickened by pace. I had four blocks to go.
    Twenty-three minutes.
    I cursed Molloy, sitting there with his bald head and big belly, pulling a suspender slightly as he ordered me to Corona. And he's a pro. Most time he shows good judgement on things, and I don't mind following orders. That's the way things get done. But after midnight to Joshua Street? Held been off the street too long. I had three blocks.
    "Mister."
    It was a feminine voice. But it wasn't soft. It hit me hard as I moved past the darkened doorway of a closed bodega. Instinctively I turned my face to see her just before she stepped in my path, forcing me to stop.
    "Yeah?"
    "Need company?"
    She couldn't have been older than 16; a painted up white kid, dressed in platform shoes, black stockings and leather short shorts held together by lacing on the outer sides. She kept out the cold, if that was possible, by hugging a robust rabbit fur jacket around her upper torso. She was working, looking kinky.
    "No thanks, doll."
    I walked past her but she quickly followed.
    "These streets aren't safe to be alone on, Mister."
    "Thanks for the tip. Not interested."
    "Everybody's interested, mister."
    True. But I draw a line long before I get to teenage hookers. But she didn't seem discouraged any.         She was half-running to keep up with me. We got past a few closed shops like this and then came on an open saloon. Confidently, she snaked her arm around mine and almost led me through a variety of street sleaze, standing around bouncing with varying levels of enthusiasm to raggae music pounding onto the street.
    I tried to shake her but she held on. I was about to give a shove but, as I looked at her to make my move, I saw a few yards down a group of punks. They were all young, feral, dressed in denim and black leather and sporting identical black berets. Like a uniform. Like trouble. I didn't spend time looking at them. They hadn't noticed me.
    "Move," she whispered, indicating with her tone and expression that I'd better, if I wanted to remain unnoticed, which I did. Together we crossed against traffic light. A few steps down, she said: "I just did you a favor, mister."
    "Yeah? Told you. Not interested," I repeated, finally shaking my arm free.
    "I don't mean that," she protested in a soft voice as she came to a halt.
I thought about the punks and her warning to move. My duel curse and blessing - curiosity - got the better of me. "What then?"
    "If I didn't have you, Aces Pack there would've taken you off Mister."
    I tried to make her out. I thought I saw a bewildered look try to make its way through the paint on her face.
    "Yeah, how you know?"
    "Business, Mister. That's the way we serve the word."
    Serve the word? Business? More like a spaced out kid, I decided working a con to shake me down for a pound. Just another street scam. I wanted out.
    "That's so, thanks. I owe you one. Be good, doll. I'm working."
    I started moving again but, this time, she didn't follow. She aimed back at her doorway. She was working too.
    I had two blocks to go, it was dark and people on the street were getting scarce. Hang on a sec. I thought, maybe she's going to turn you over to her partners.
    I ran, turned down Joshua Street and saw, a block down, blinking red lights going around and around. A police cruiser at the DOA. I slowed to a trot and the muscles in my shoulders relaxed. By the time I came to the front stoop of The Palace, I was walking. My watch gave me 20 minutes.
    "What's doing, Sarge?" I casually asked the ranking of two uniforms standing up the steps on The Palace's landing.
    When I identified myself they relaxed a bit too.
    "She's dead. Looks like an overdose. No ID," the sergeant said, waving his arm toward the doorway. "Go on up, though. They're upstairs and can tell you what you want." He shook his head. "Wasting your time. Just a dead whore."
    I said he was probably right and stepped up, past him and the other uniform, and into a small lobby, empty of anybody. There was a half-full glass of beer and part of a cheese sandwich on top of the battered reception desk. The eater was probably up with the cops I thought.
    I climbed the stairs, got to the landing and opened the door on the right and stepped into darkness. The hall lights, if there were any, were out. I couldn't see to read where Room 29 was. So I put my ears to work, turned toward voices, walked down a narrow corridor and around to the right.
    At the end of the hall, I could see light framing a door, open only a bit, and a uniform standing in the dark in front. As I moved down the hall, the uniform's head turned at me and stayed still. Six feet from the uniform, I heard: "What do you want?"
    I stopped. The voice, sounding somewhat threatened, wasn't friendly.
    "F. X. Quill. Reporter from The Sun."
    I lifted the back of my overcoat slowly, so he wouldn't get nervous, and pulled out my wallet. I held up my police department credentials so he could see them.
    "Don't you guys quit, for crying out loud?"
    It wasn't much of a question; so I didn't answer. I figured I'd say something else but was stopped when I heard another voice from behind the door.
    "What's up out there?"
    "Some dopey reporter."
    This uniform was a real comfort but, again before I could get out my opinion of this cop, the door opened halfway and a dark street clothes stood there, his face hidden by light framing his head. I repeated the ID routine.
    "Fran. This is a helluva place to see you. What are you doing here?'
    I recognized the voice right off. Carmine D'Angelo, a detective with Queens Homicide Zone 15, opened the door more so I could see him. He was a good cop. We'd worked together sometime back and respected, even liked each other.
    "Molloy told me to check it out on the way home."
    He jerked his head for me to come in. I did, walking quickly by the uniform, who I hoped at that point felt like But just as that thought came to me it disappeared. She was gray; stretched out in front of me face up, right there in the middle of the room, perpendicular to the rusty bed frame and neatly made mattress.
    I heard behind me: "I haven't seen you around lately, where you been?"
    I stood there for a few moments maybe, and stared. The dead look dead and she was no different. Nothing came from her.
    "Fran?"
    "What" I probably answered.
    She was dressed in faded blue jeans, a tie-died purple sleeveless undershirt and barefoot. Probably collapsed onto herself and fallen straight back on the floor, looked like. Her eyelids were wide open, her blue eyes pointed straight up at the ceiling.
    One of her arms was under her left side and the other lay down and across her front. Her legs were bent at the knees under her. She was pretty, cute even, in a used up kind of way. And she was dead.
    "Fran?"
    I turned to look at him. "What?" I know I answered.
    "Where you been, I said. Haven't seem you around."
    "Transferred to Nightside. Six months maybe."
    I looked back at her. I needed to put reason for me being in the room, seeing this. Questions just shot out: " Got a name? Age? Know who she is? What's a white, girl doing here? How long she dead?"
    "Wait a minute, pal. One at a time," D'Angelo cautioned, holding up his palm. I saw another plain clothes and some other hoople behind him, but I didn't pay much attention to them and instead settled down.
    "All right. Let me know what you can. I've got five minutes."
    He stepped past me, stood by the girl's chest and looked down. He said they figured she overdosed maybe seven to eight thirty some such. There were no needles around so it was probably pills.
D'Angelo squatted down and pointed to the scar tissue on the Inside of the elbow joint on the arm lying across her front. The scars had the gray yellow color of death.
    "A user."
    "No idea who she is?"
    He fingered lightly a silver ID bracelet on the same arm. "All we got is this. Reads: 'To My Little Baby.' Some baby. Some help. We do know it's not her room."
    He stood up and looked over my shoulder to the other two men in the room. I turned and saw a badge hanging from a leather wallet folded backwards Into an outer breast pocket., the one where a hanky ought to have been. I 'was pretty bad because I had to think that the badge node him a cop. The other guy, though, 'wasn't. I figured he was the Manager. After seeing his dead guest I decided I had the right to a question or two.
    "What's he say," I asked of D'Angelo though keeping my eyes on the manager.
    "Ask him yourself," came the answer.
    "How about it," I said the manager, whose was dressed sloppy and whose face hadn't felt razor or water in days. "Who's she?"
    "I don't know." He was definitely a smart guy.
    "All right then, whose room is it?"
    He hesitated. I didn't. "Whose?"
    "Some guy. Name's Jimmy or something. Been here couple maybe three years. Maybe more, maybe. I don't know."
    "You seen her before?"
    "Maybe a few times, maybe. I don't know, sometimes." He was not only a smart guy, he was a creep. He'd seen her before. Anybody who works a hotel desk in a dump like The Palace would notice a white girl with her looks and age coming in to see somebody.
    Three minutes.
    I pulled out my notebook, took down essentials and got everybody's name spelled right. I then worked some theory: "Carmine, this Jimmy guy a suspect?"
    "Not a homicide yet. So we got no suspects. Just want him to help ID the kid, is all."
    To D'Angelo I said, "I'll be in touch." To the manager and the other cop I said nothing, then paced through the darkness downstairs and found a pay phone underneath the open stairway. I pulled out one of the twenty dimes I always carry, put it in the slot and worked the dial.
    "Leah," I said to the city room switchboard operator, "give me Molloy."
    I would have liked to say more, like how are you, but I didn't have time. Two rings later and Molloy. It was 12:55 a.m.
    "Desk."
    "This Is Quill. I got it. DOA's white, maybe 25ish, apparent OD. No ID, except for a dime store bracelet..." I pushed out all the facts without interruption.
    "Suspects?"
    "Not a homicide, suicide or accident. Undetermined, Queens Homicide Zone 15 is looking for an old black guy who lived in the apartment to help ID the DOA."
    "What's the neighborhood like? The hotel?"
    Molloy hadn't worked these streets in a long time, so I told him.
    "Where are you?" came the question.
    "The hotel,"went the answer.
    "Better than a box in the back of the book on some press conference by the governor, what not. Okay. Give me three graphs." That was the assignment.    He shouted over to Leah, "Give Quill into the wire room." He shouted to me, "Write standing up. Goodnight."
    Leah switched me into the wireman. By the time I'd dictated the facts into a three graph formula it was one o'clock on the button, I was off work, story in my deadline and standing at the reception desk of The Palace Hotel, 35-99 Joshua St., Corona with no way home.
    I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. I turned to see a tall, athletic black man dressed In clerics walking towards me. I know this guy, I thought, its whatshisname. Wilson or Watkins. No. That's not it.
    "Reverend Watson?" I asked, finally remembering the name.
    "Yes," he answered, stopping next to me at the reception desk. "I don't believe."
    "F. X. Quill. Reporter for The Sun. I covered a luncheon you spoke at a year back or so."
    "Oh, yes," he said, a smile revealing a healthy set of pearlies. "The Queens Committee of Churchmen luncheon."
    "That's it." Sure, I thought, he was given an award for something or other and gave a talk about brotherhood, love and all. Not bad either. I wrote a piece on it, but it never made the paper.
    "Are you here because of that girl?" he sighed, shaking his large head.
    "Afraid so."
    "Such a shame."
    "You know her?"
    "No. I spoke to the officers upstairs. I'm afraid I wasn't much help."
    Funny place for a preacher, I thought, even this guy. Curiosity got the better of my manners. "Why are you here?"
    "I work with several of the tenants," he answered evenly, "many are troubled, you know, and I try to help any way I can."
    That's what his talk was about, I recalled. He argued that ministers ought to get to the lousy neighborhoods of this town and work with the people, one to one. Not from a pulpit only on Sunday. Made sense to me. He was a very persuasive speaker and everybody at the luncheon listened carefully to this handsome black man with the deep booming voice.
    "Do you know the guy who lives in the room?" I asked, thinking his work might have brought them in contact.
    "Jimmy, you mean?"
    "That's right."
    He shook his head, and said. "No. The police asked me. The name doesn't sound familiar." His face got curious.
    "Why are you here? This kind of thing is barely newsworthy anymore."
    I didn't want to tell him the real reason - racism, like sex and blood and crime, still sells news - so I hedged.  "Fair enough. We check out all we can. I was on my way home and I do what the city editor says."
    "I see. Will a story be in the paper?"
    "Yes, I just called it in."
    "Perhaps it is not a bad thing," he said, almost under his breath. "A story like that might prevent another girl from doing the same thing."
    "Perhaps." I knew better though. Junkie hookers are always taking one too many pills or popping up too much. Like that kid who went for me on my way over to Joshua Street. She'd end up ODing sure. Or murdered by a John. It is too bad, I thought to myself. I went fishing.
    "Reverend, you know any religions around here that talk about serving the word?"
    "Serving the world," he said, incorrectly hearing my question. But then, maybe I hadn't heard the kid right.
    "Yes, perhaps that's it." He thought for a moment and then shook his head.
    "No. I don't think so. Although that doesn't mean there isn't. There are many groups springing up all over nowadays. I don't know them all."
    Naah, I thought to myself, the kid was just pulling a scam. Pure and simple. "Hard to keep track sometimes, Isn't it?" He nodded and smiled ironically.
    "Well, I must be going. Perhaps we can meet again soon under better circumstances, Mr. Quill."
    I said I hoped so, we shook hands and he left. I thought to myself there ought to be more preachers like him around neighborhoods like this, but I dropped all such musings when I saw I was still standing in The Palace Hotel with no way home.

Things Got in the Way

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Title: Things Got in the Way

Author: Robert Holland

ISBN: 1928928021

Description

Blake MacIntosh was blessed with the perfect eye and temperament for baseball. He could see a pitched ball as well as anybody since Ted Williams. His poise and power at the plate awed players and coaches alike. But on his way to the Big Leagues “Things Got in the Way.” Growing up in the late 1950s and early 1960s, MacIntosh had to contend with his parents, his community, his coaches - and himself. Like a batter who must handle whatever the pitcher throws, MacIntosh must deal with the conflicts and boundaries of class and ambition, of farm and factory, of rich and poor, of playing field and classroom, and of dreams and disappointments. From the hardscrabble confines of his small New England town, MacIntosh’s ambitions for baseball has to take into account the expectations of his parents, his schools and finally his country. Through it all, baseball remained a perfect venue for his unique talent. It was a point of joy, of achievement and recognition. But the actions and views of others and even MacIntosh’s own attitude got in the way. Author Robert Holland crafts a unique story about how Blake MacIntosh ultimately handles all that is thrown at him, so his triumphs in life surpass any disappointments at the plate.

Snow Blind

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Title: Snow Blind

Author: Douglas Kalajian

ISBN: 0966788389

Description:

Cocaine's rampage through America's cities is well documented, but a new book by a Florida newsman offers a rare and chilling look at the drug's power over the human soul.  Snow Blind by Douglas Kalajian is the true story of an idealistic young lawyer who became addicted to cocaine and found himself swept up in the drug wars that ravaged South Florida in the 1980s.
    Howard Finkelstein was a pony-tailed public defender from Fort Lauderdale who made every case a cause. He was witty and charming, especially to a generation of journalists inspired as much by Woodstock as Watergate. He became as much a staple of local news as hurricanes and carjacked tourists, celebrated for his rousing defense of people who were swept aside along with the old beach bars and seashell shacks. But the reporters who glorified Howard missed the bigger story, when he stopped fighting for the poor and started fighting himself. They didn't start paying attention again until Howard stopped fighting altogether -- when he nearly died. They missed the story because what happened to Howard was happening to so many people everywhere it didn't seem unusual.
    In South Florida in the early 1980s, getting hooked on cocaine was like getting hooked on bowling: not everyone did, but everyone knew someone who did. You didn't stop inviting these people to your house, even if they made you a little nervous every time they went into the bathroom. But in time, as it did to so many others, cocaine transformed Howard from an admirably decent and generous man into a self-absorbed, self-destructive wreck. The defender became a defendant, facing a long prison term. He came as close to utter ruin as any human can. So did his wife. This is also her story, and the story of many others like her. Snow Blind follows Howard and his wife through an overwhelming challenge. It isn't just about recovery from addiction; it's about recovery of the human spirit. Howard became a better man, a better husband and a loving father because he rediscovered his purpose in life. Howard didn't see himself as a man whose life was ruined by cocaine. Instead, he saw himself as a man who ruined his own life and took cocaine to pretend he hadn't -- a man who came to care too much about foolish pleasures and about himself. The proof of his ruination wasn't a lost job or a lost home but his lost ideals. The proof of his redemption would lie in what he could do for others. As long as he held on to that purpose, he had nothing to fear from cocaine -- and, as Snow Blind shows, he was determined to hold on with all his might.
    The book follows Finkelstein's early rise as a champion of the poor, his plunge into addiction and the arrest that left him facing prison and professional ruin.  An inspiring story of redemption, Snow Blind follows Finkelstein as he recovers his health and his spirit. Today, he is again a public defender as well as a popular consumer advocate and Miami television per-sonality. Kalajian tells the story in riveting detail against a vivid backdrop of the cocaine wars that rav-aged the region in the 1980s. He makes use of first-hand expertise earned as a long-time South Florida reporter and editor. Kalajian is currently a feature writer for The Palm Beach Post and lives in Boca Raton, Florida.

________________________

Highlights:

The people close to Howard:

Donna Chase: The college classmate Howard married
Maury Finkelstein: Howard's father
Andy Mavrides: Howard's teacher and role model
Ed Stack: The sheriff Howard battled
Judy Stern: The friend and secretary who tried to save Howard
Kelly: The young love Howard hurt
Alan Schreiber: The public defender who gave Howard a second chance
Roger Stark: The drug dealer who haunted Howard
Harry Gulkin: The judge-turned-lawyer who came to Howard's rescue Howard's path

Chapter summaries:

Chapter One: Two men on trial, looking back to the beginning
Chapter Two: In the belly of the '60s, the origin of Howard's ideals
Chapter Three: Zen in the '70s, a time when nothing could go wrong
Chapter Four: The eyes of truth, when Howard turns away and gets lost
Chapter Five: Into the '80s, alone, as Howard turns inward from fear
Chapter Six: A leader lost, the danger of being a follower
Chapter Seven: Fire in the night, the violence all around closes in
Chapter Eight: Settling accounts, a close call with the mob
Chapter Nine: Losing his balance, the addiction becomes harder to hide
Chapter Ten: Sharing the blame, Donna is drawn into his sickness
Chapter Eleven: First poison, then suicide: Donna's hope evaporates
Chapter Twelve: Killing Howard, Donna strikes back
Chapter Thirteen: A jury that won't listen, friends insist Howard face the truth
Chapter Fourteen: Learning to live, Howard finally gives up
Chapter Fifteen: One last lesson, Howard gets the advice he needs
Chapter Sixteen: The verdict, Howard passes a crucial test
Chapter Seventeen: A gladiator once more, Howard wins again in court
Chapter Eighteen: Sense in the '90s, Howard learns to live with the past
Chapter Nineteen: Only human, Howard accepts his limits
Chapter Twenty: Two familiar voices, Howard begins to earn his second chance

Primal Entities: Chaos

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Title: Primal Entities: Chaos

Author: Kathryn Loch

ISBN: 1928928005

Description:

The ancient Greeks believed that the first, primal entities to exist in the universe were Chaos, Nyx, Erebus and Tartarus. The vivid mythology has the strength to reach beyond layers of time to a distant land during a dark age. Primal Entities: Chaos, a paranormal romance, takes place in historic England in 1322. Does love have to power to overcome the darkest of forces in a time when despots control English politics? Adam de Leyburn is twenty-nine and the baron of Copeland. He is powerfully built with long black hair and blue eyes. When he was twelve, mercenaries murdered his father. Although Adam has long sought to bring the murderers to justice he has been unsuccessful. His desire for vengeance consumes him. Christiana de Moriceby is twenty-five. She is petite with green eyes and long brown hair. When she was nine, her father was killed in battle. Christiana hates her step-father who sometimes beats her. William de Moriceby has little use for his step-daughter except as a pawn in his plays for power. He studies avidly in the black arts and ancient history. When his wife, Clarissa, discovered his studies he denounced her as an adulteress and sent her to a convent. But through his studies, Moriceby discovers a legend of armor cursed by Chaos. A force so powerful, it is nearly invincible but the armor can only be worn by members of one family. In Moriceby's extensive research, he learns Adam de Leyburn carries that blood in his veins. The story opens with Moriceby forcing Adam to enter a cave and obtain the power. He uses Adam's rage and guilt over the death of his father to push him forward. Adam can no longer live with his failure to find justice and enters the cave, only to discover the power is a sentient entity that takes possession of his body. Adam's journey into darkness begins. He comes to Moriceby's home, Hayes Castle, where he meets Christiana, although she does not recognize him as the baron. Adam constantly battles the entity to keep it from slaughtering indiscriminately. Adam and Christiana are immediately drawn to each other and find companionship. Adam dislikes the way Moriceby's men treat Christiana. When he comes upon one of the thanes trying to rape her, Adam's fury causes him to release the entity. Christiana, fighting against her attacker, looks up to see a giant man, with strange black armor, dragon-like wings, and glowing blue eyes. The armor covers most of the man's face. The creature attacks the man, ripping him apart with taloned hands. Terror possess Christiana. A demon resides in Hayes Castle, bearing the vengeance of hell.

_____________________________

Prologue

Somewhere in Northern England
Early Spring, 1322 A.D.

"Fear followeth after thee, terror is about thine arms. Thou hast been embraced for millions of years by arms; mortals go round about thee. Thou smitest down the mediators of thy foes, and thou seizest the arms of the power of darkness."   
                                                            Egyptian Book of the Dead 240 B.C.

Baron Adam de Leyburn tensed against the shiver crawling over his skin. The starless night cast a terrible chill around him. In the distance, he heard the waves of the cold Irish Sea crashing against the barren cliffs. The misty salt air clung to his cloak and beaded in tiny drops of water on his hair and face. Adam's horse tossed his head and snorted nervously as the small, heavily armed party stopped before the black crevice of a cave.
    Adam patted the animal's neck but in truth he understood his mount's apprehension. A powerful foreboding hovered in the air, as thick as the mist around them. The leader of the armed party, Lord William de Moriceby, motioned for him to dismount.
    He did so and gritted his teeth when a sword tip pressed between his shoulder blades. How had Moriceby found the courage--and the manpower--to forcibly take his baron from his home? Didn't he know that ultimately he would pay for this outrage? Adam glared at Moriceby.
    Moriceby pointed toward the cave, his armor creaking softly. Adam stepped next to him, his anger fading as he stared into the blackness. "After you, Baron," Moriceby said, curling his lip.
    The hairs on the back of Adam's neck stood upright. He dug his heels into the rocky earth. A dark evil dwelt in the cave. Sweet Jesu, Adam thought. What is this place? The chill of death shuddered down his spine. This was not a normal cave but the door to Hades.
    The tip of the sword jabbed Adam's back again. "Go you cowardly sod," Moriceby said between clenched teeth. "'Tis the only way to avenge your murdered father."
    Rage and anger ripped through Adam. The vision of that terrible day returned. A group of unknown knights had descended on Adam and his father as they hunted. His father fought valiantly but the knights slaughtered him. Twelve year old Adam ran, abandoning his father to the vultures.
    Hatred! A strange voice, neither male nor female, whispered in Adam's thoughts. He blinked, staring into the black crevice. He sensed a presence...a force so black, it matched the rage in his heart.
Moriceby seized Adam's shoulder. "You are a coward," he whispered. "A second time you would run from the justice your father's blood demands."
    Adam's vision tinted red. He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to strangle the older knight. Adam glanced at Moriceby's thanes surrounding him. They held torches, their weapons at the ready. Adam was twenty and nine years, a fine and powerful knight, but he could not slay all of these men and his heart told him it was not yet time to die. He glowered at Moriceby. The knight's face was weathered but in his prime he had been brutally handsome. His eyes flashed dark and cold. Adam knew this venture was not solely to avenge the death of his father. Moriceby had his own agenda and possessed a cruel reputation. Adam stood at the mouth of the cave because of Moriceby's threat of death.
    Blood lust! the strange voice in his thoughts cried. Adam tried to swallow his rage. The voice was soft but it spoke with undeniable power. It was haunting, calling to some part of his soul Adam had never looked upon.
    "Only you can do this," Moriceby said. "Only you can claim the power that is rightfully yours by blood and family. Your father's death demands retribution." Again rage and pain rose within him. Adam stepped forward. Moriceby was right, his father's soul cried for revenge. He returned from the grave each night and haunted Adam's dreams. You abandoned me. The pain of loss battered him but the disappointment in his father's voice cut Adam's soul. Nigel's only son, the boy he doted on, had ran in his time of need.
    Vengeance! the soft voice called. Come to me. Adam moved, like a puppet pulled by unseen strings. Moriceby, carrying a torch, followed him. The cave narrowed, littered with rocks, making passage difficult and hazardous. Adam wondered if the rocks tried to tell him to stay out, to keep him from the power calling so seductively to him.
    A few paces into the cave, the rock-strewn path angled downward. An icy breath of air caressed Adam's face. A shiver passed through him with the power of a quake. "I can go no further," Moriceby said and handed Adam the torch. "But mind my words, if you emerge from this cave without the power in your possession, I will gut you like a pig."
    Adam curled his lip but took the torch. Death at the hands of Moriceby's thanes was nothing compared to what he faced. He could not explain how, but Adam knew his soul was in peril. Yet the power beckoning to him would allow him to avenge his father. He had tried in the past, after earning his knightly spurs at sixteen, but the murderers hid themselves like rats from a cat. He had not been able to find the answers, but the trail led to some of the most powerful men in all of England, perhaps even to the throne itself.
    Why did you abandon me? his father's voice cried from the depths of Adam's nightmares.
    His grip tightened on the torch, the hard wood digging into his hand. Anguish assailed him. Forgive me, father. But Adam knew he would never be forgiven. He had begged for that every night for the past seventeen years. Still his father's specter tormented him. Neither Adam nor his father could rest until those responsible paid with their lives.
    Sweet hatred, the voice called again. Find solace with me.
    Adam continued along the path, leaving Moriceby behind.
    About forty paces later, the path opened into a huge cavern. The blackness seemed to press down on Adam, cold and evil. His torch dimmed slightly, as if the small flame fought to stay alive under the weight of the darkness.
    The sensation of evil strengthened. Surely when God cast Lucifer out of heaven, this was the blackness tangled in the deep folds of his cloak.
    Vengeance and hatred, the voice whispered, taunting yet alluring. Come to me. Adam stepped into the cavern. A black gulf yawned before him and he stopped.
    Adam de Leyburn, I have waited so long for you.
    He swallowed hard. It was alive...aware. Power danced around him, lifting the hairs on his arm - an entity of the most primal forces, more ancient than even time. Accept me, Adam de Leyburn, find comfort in my embrace. Vengeance shall be yours. His heart pounded and his belly coiled. Adam battled the urge to turn and run, damn Moriceby and his thanes. He might die but at least it would be by a mortal blade. All power came with a price. Was he willing to pay with his soul?
    Why did you abandon me? his father whispered. Why have you not found justice? Fury clawed at Adam's heart. Justice. Those who murdered his father should pay not only with their lives but their souls as well.
    Rage! the sweet voice whispered. The murderers hid behind their veils of power, taunting the helpless son, laughing at his torment, their very presence goading him.
    Hatred!
    They deserved no mercy, they mocked him with each breath they drew. Vengeance!
    Their blood would ransom his father's tormented spirit, their souls would assuage Adam's grief.
Accept me! They shall pay.
    His vision fogged with rage so primitive that it matched the power around him. "Yes," Adam whispered. "Yes!"
    A soft laugh filled the cavern. Adam saw movement in the gulf before him. A black tendril reached upward, strangely translucent. It wrapped around his ankle, and he suddenly realized it was powerfully solid. Horror slashed at his mind. Icy cold, like invisible daggers, stabbed into the marrow of his bones, traveling upward and reaching for his soul.
    A wave of black pain threatened to crush his chest and Adam tried to stagger back. Dear God, what was happening? More tendrils emerged from the gulf. They wrapped around his legs and toppled him. He slammed into the ground, losing his grip on the torch. The flame flickered then went out. Adam writhed against the thing holding him. But tendrils seized his waist, then his chest. One wrapped around his throat. Terror possessed him and he clawed futilely at the thing. The soft laughter grew into a deafening screech. The blackness seeped into his pores, igniting Adam's blood with icy fire. It ripped at his heart and wrapped around his mind.
    Hatred! it screamed. You are mine!
    The thing was sentient, black evil, made of the foundation of hell. "Nay!" Adam bellowed. His mind, his sense of self, recoiled violently. Pain fogged Adam's thinking and for an instant the blackness almost overwhelmed him. But his will rose in defiance. He would not allow the thing to destroy his identity. He would not allow it to control his thoughts and actions.
    The blackness withdrew slightly with a distinctive hiss of disappointment.
    Adam forced his vision to clear and hauled himself to his hands and knees. The assault of pain eased. Dizzy, he dragged in a breath followed by another. It was there, in his body, its claws buried in his soul. His fury faded, replaced by agonizing sorrow and grief. Adam squeezed his eyes shut. "Father," he whispered, his voice shaking. "What have I done?"
    The entity surged within him. Pain ripped through his right forearm. Adam stared in horror. His skin bubbled and moved, as if something tried to claw its way out. He roared in agony, clutching his arm. Blackness oozed out of his pores like blood. It wrapped around his arm and became solid, forming an armor-like gauntlet. Suddenly, fire burned through every part of Adam's body.
    The primal entity within him yanked him to his feet. He howled against the pain. Adam's voice deepened, his roar stripped of humanity. The entity joined with his cry, screaming its own.
    "I am vengeance!" The power enveloped Adam's body, forming a black armor like none he had ever seen. The entity squirmed and writhed. Both terror and hope pounded through Adam's being as he became one with the power. With this force he could achieve all that he had sought. Adam clenched his fists and threw his head back.
    "I am Chaos!"

Kingdom Come

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Title: Kingdom Come

Author: West Straits

ISBN: 096678832X

Description:

This mystery begins when a Hollywood producer decides it's time to hold a three-day seminar at UCLA about the making of one of the present generation's favorite movies, the black-and-white "Kingdom Come." The producer convinces the movie's living participants to come to Los Angeles, their first gathering since the film was made on location in Washington State in 1954. The movie since has become a cult favorite. Most of the participants, however, are reluctant to attend the seminar because it's a reminder of the unexplained death of the film's writer on location. This novel combines our contemporary fascination with entertainment nostalgia with the realization that no one can spot a classic before time proves it one.
    Kingdom Come explores the mystery surrounding the making of a movie in the early 1950's that no one knew would become the touchstone of an age and a cult classic for a generation. Writer West Straits brings a knowing eye to the making of a movie from the point of view of the people who did the work - the average work-a-day studio hands - who saw the movie industry as a place to earn a living - not make history.  This book features Hal Lee, the workmanlike director who was a man's man and authority of his set - a master at getting the most out of actors while getting a film in the can on time and under budget. In Kingdom Come, using a lean writing style reminiscent of James M. Cain, Straits has the reader watch the filmmaker Lee make his most famous film step by step, not knowing that the movie would not only make history, but also introduce him to the love of his life.
    Some on the movie set were happy for the work, others saw the film posting as an excuse to cavort. The set for Kingdom Come was plagued however as the writer of the book and the producer of the film clashed, leading to a confrontation whose consequences remain unresolved. The mystery is only solved after a present-day retrospective as the cast and crew gather at a Los Angeles college at a film festival held to honor Kingdom Come.

_____________________________

Except from Chapter 1:

About all you have left at the end are the memories and the fragments of dreams. The old man thought of that often. He shifted his weight from his painful hip. He was sitting in the elegant wingback chair he liked. It faced the window. The warm sunlight was comfortable. He could smell floor wax. The sun and the smell were pleasant. He liked the sunny days. He disliked the nights. The others, well, they had their flickering televisions.
    He didn't have a television. He disliked television. That was understandable, as he had worked for more than l5 years as a television producer and director. He had stopped when he realized that the work would eventually kill him. He had more than enough money for his small needs. It wasn't financial security that he needed as much as mental peace. He didn't differ from about 90 percent of those his age. Most people found no refuge from their problems in age--they just found more problems.        Television, he knew, gave no one security, just a temporary disconnect from reality. He had quit what they called "the industry" and few of his colleagues were surprised. The industry, of course, flowed like a wide river, uncaring who or what was floating in it. It was like any polluted river in the country, only more so.
    "You have a phone call," Mrs. Sudmeyer called from the hallway. The old man was startled by her voice. He was listening to the voice in his head. His phone calls usually came on his own phone in his room, and very infrequently at that. Usually it was some salesman trying to sell him something, a cold call.
    Mrs. Sudmeyer went back into her office in the front of the modern brick building. He shuffled along behind her, angry with himself over his unresponsive legs. They always go first, he had heard all his life.
    "Hal?" the voice asked. The old man recognized Lou Wattstein's voice. The old man grunted. Wattstein had been the young Wharton grad he had hired back in the 70s, the kid who wanted to plunge into Hollywood, the dream of millions of like-minded accountants. Now Wattstein was a producer, but of what the old man could not say immediately. The old man wondered if he should just hang up, silently. But hang up all the same.
    "Lissen," Wattstein said, "I had a hell of a time finding you. I had to pull some strings at the bank. I said it was a matter of life or death." Wattstein laughed. "They gave me your address." The old man was silent.   
    "Hal, you gotta come out here next month. Lissen, UCLA is givin' us a festival, a fucking festival. Just for the movie. Whatdja say?"   
    The old man thought quickly, hard to do these days. He knew that if he backed down that it would lead to an endless argument, and more phone calls.
    "Sure, Lou," he said. "Next month."
    "Great!" Wattstein said. "Lissen, I'll get you a suite at the Century, huh? The studio isn't puttin' bubkis into this. I gotta be straight with you. The putzes are too busy with real estate in Mexico, and cocaine from who-rode-the horse. Bastids!"
The old man held the phone away from his ear as the tirade continued.
    He knew that it was hopeless to stop Wattstein in the middle of one of his complaints. He knew that the producer would soon fade into an excoriation of the former agents, lawyers and real-estate dealers who had taken over the film and television production industry in Los Angeles. The old man didn't have anything against them all, particularly, other than the fact that he didn't want to be among them.
    "I told the guy at the school that you'd need a limo, too, Wattstein said.
    "Yeah, Lou," the old man said. He thought about how he had groomed Wattstein years before as a junior half-ass producer of one of the comedy westerns then in vogue. Wattstein had come to the company about l970, he guessed. Wattstein had stuck it out, actually making a name for himself in the industry--for his ability to pressure cook the fat out of a production and shooting budget. Wattstein was not a favorite of the below-the-line guilds, the craftsmen who really made movies. Wattstein had a nose for padding and he cut ruthlessly.
    After what seemed like an hour the old man hung up and shuffled out of the office. He returned to the chair and the sun. This was just another complication, he thought, one that he would have to handle. It wasn't only that Wattstein had found him, but the old man was sure that Wattstein would now put the word out on the coast, and God knew what would follow. He could see the headline in "The Reporter": Hal Lee found living in geriatric home in the east. Then it would begin, he felt sure. He felt very tired.
From what little the old man had seen of local news television programs, he knew that the two stations were desperate for anything that boosted the region, or anything that smacked of the big time. The region was definitely small time, but like most of the United States it consciously worked to correct that in the minds of residents. The old man wondered sometimes if people really cared that they lived in the Golden Triangle, or The Twin Cities, or any of the other made-up names. Even New York was the Apple. LA was LA. It didn't used to be that way, he remembered. People came from Pittsburgh, or Montana, and that was that.
    As he slipped toward the edge of sleep, the old man decided that his peace and security would be shattered as soon as the first camera crew climbed out of their truck. He would be discovered, a one-day sensation, ninety seconds on the evening news.
    As Wattstein put down his phone he had a smug, satisfied feeling. He had found the old bastard. He had run him to ground. It had taken the efforts of his son-in-law, a lawyer with the state attorney general's office. It was the lawyer who had applied the pressure on the bank to give up Hal Lee's whereabouts. And he was successful, Wattstein knew, because he had known that Hal Lee was Harold Lauer.
    Got 'im! Wattstein said to himself. With Hal Lee, he knew, he could make a real splash at UCLA. A real festival. Without Hal Lee, Wattstein knew, he was left with a couple of shaggy ass holes on the faculty, and 6,000 angry fans, all under 30. With Hal Lee, Wattstein felt he could turn the thing into a deal, something to trade.
    Wattstein grabbed the phone and punched the buttons. He swung back in his oversize executive chair. This one ought to be good, he thought. He would be very interested to hear about Hal Lee. He thought about the reaction that he was sure to get. The guy had been looking for Hal Lee for years. Every time Wattstein brought the name up the guy turned red. Wattstein knew that it had something to do with the guy's former wife and money. Didn't it always, he thought.
    Hal Lee's chin was nearly on his breastbone when the housekeeper tried to wake him. He felt depressed, as depressed as he had been in Palm Springs.   
    That goddam Wattstein, Lee thought. The bastard wants to get me killed.

Lost in the Fogg

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Title: Lost in the Fogg

Author: Lane Carlson

ISBN: 0966788338

Description:

Lost in the Fogg begins with the theft of the Irish crown jewels from Dublin Castle early in the century, and moves to a seemingly inexplicable theft of a religious statue from the 80,000-piece art collection in the Fogg Museum of Art at Harvard University. The statue, donated to the museum, is considered virtually valueless until two men dressed as utility workers steal it one evening. Independent insurance claims investigator Lou Clarke, a former FBI agent, usually concerned with arson cases in southeast New England, finds himself investigating the theft, its companion kidnapping of a young art historian, and the thread of the caper that began in 1907. The event, though a simple burglary, is still an open case for Scotland Yard because it concerns the highest levels of the British government. 
    Lost in the Fogg was written by Lane Carlson, author of several books, and retired newsman who lived in Cambridge while a Nieman Fellow at Harvard. With Lost in the Fogg, Carlson, a student of Irish history, uses his knowledge of the pre-Civil War Ireland and weaves a compelling tale about the efforts of Irish rebel leaders Michael Collins, Eamon De Valera and other founders of Irish independence and their sometimes ill-conceived attempts to fight the British. One of these was the theft of the Crown Jewels at Dublin Castle and their disappearance, to the consternation of Scotland Yard and the British Royal Family. Lost in the Fogg flashes forward to current day in Cambridge where an shadowy IRA elder enlists a band of often comic bumblers - including a ne'er-do-well jailbird and a Mafioso wannabe from Newark -- to steal a modest statue of the Virgin Mary from the basement of Harvard's famed Fogg Museum. No one knows that hidden in the humble statue is a fortune in stolen gems. But the theft goes awry and one of the victims, a bored young co-ed, turns into a surprising and eager companion of one of the incompetent thieves. All the while, the old Irish rebel stays in the shadows and emerges to keep the dream of Irish independence alive.

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Highlights:

• Take a major theft in 1907 of the Crown Jewels
• Mix leaders of the Irish nationalist movement
• Stir in a strange bequest to Harvard's Fogg Art Museum and you have a mystery-caper that pits insurance investigator Lou Clarke against two thieves and the mystery man behind them.

"Stivey knew: he was being tested for some scam of some sorts. The caper wasn't clear, but he knew the approach."

"A couple grand for a few hours work, and no mess. I like that..."

"In the midst of all this Brian saw the statue--blue, white and gold. She stood about 4-foot tall, head cast downward, palms up. Amazing! She looked like all the statues Brian remembered from his childhood with the nuns."

The robbery goes awry. The thieves disagree with gunfire. One kidnaps a witness and finds she doesn't want to miss the excitement. The theft draws unwanted attention to Harvard. The missing statue is returned. But what's happened to the Crown Jewels?  Lost in the Fogg tells the tale.

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Excerpt from Chapter 1:

Bosom of Empire - 1907

Inspector John Hoyt stared out at the July rain flowing down the window about four feet from his desk. A typical London summer, he thought sourly. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and pulled his large pocket watch from his vest. Three o'clock. Damn! Too early to slip away to the local for a needed whisky. Drinking this early was frowned on in Scotland Yard in this year of our Lord, 1907. Drinking itself wasn't frowned on - just the hours. After 4 p.m., the "tea time" it was proper. But not beforehand, when an officer was supposed to be on watch.
    Damn! Hoyt felt his stomach churn. That blasted lamb curry at the midday meal. The wine, too, had a touch of the sour. Too dry. He shifted his bulk in his chair. Just a few minutes before he had been standing before the Chief Inspector, the round-faced Welshman, learning how he, Hoyt, would be spending his summer.   
    "This is a matter of importance at the highest levels, Hoyt," Chief Inspector Jones had intoned solemnly. "This matter is of serious concern to His Majesty." Jones cleared his throat, and leaned at Hoyt over his desk. "He has sent word to the Yard that he wants this matter, ah, completed quickly. That's why, ah, we're sending you over to Dublin, to, ah, assist..."   
    Hoyt knew that his plan for a quiet summer, a bit of racing, a bit of drink, a bit of womanhood, was dashed. Hoyt knew he was going because he was on the job while the others went away, and because he had a good record. In a way he was honored to get the assignment. Anything for His Majesty, of course.   
    A 30-year old bachelor, Hoyt was still youngish, handsome, despite a great fondness for curry and good port. And whisky. He had been a Scotland Yard inspector for five years. An individual with an impeccable record. Hoyt had been involved with a case connected with the Royal Family. The year before, or was it two? He was called in to determine who had been stealing silver plate from Windsor. A footman was quickly charged. He denied it, of course, as they all did. Even to the end, as they were transporting him to prison. The footman claimed that it was one of the children, playing pranks. Hoyt never believed that.   
    What earthly purpose could one of the children have with the silver? Chief Inspector Jones preferred to believe that the silver had been melted down. Hoyt didn't believe that. He knew that the London gangs had a reverence for Edward, and anyone foolish enough to try to pass on Royal Family silver emblazoned with the family crest would have been turned in. Where did the silver go? He didn't know. He didn't really care.   
    The case had allowed Hoyt to spend time investigating in the West End. Jones had given Hoyt loose tether for a period. And Hoyt had made use of it. He developed a taste for gaming, and for the ladies. Hoyt found Emily during the investigation, a short, round woman from Cornwall who worked in a middling posh gaming hall as a shill.   
    She was red haired, and charming in bed, though uneducated. Hoyt soon met Alice, a thinner, more handsome woman he found working in a mercantile outlet that had been undergoing a rash of jewelry thefts. While watching from a back room, he developed a fondness for Alice that was pleasurable. She willingly moved from her boarding room to the small apartment he found for her. Alice was London Cockney, but she was naturally quiet and pliant. At 25 she expected little from life, and therefore wasn't disappointed.   
    Hoyt was able to support the women from his pay and winnings and bit of extra he earned from his contacts in the slippery world of thieves. 
    Now, instead of a small, pleasant summer, Hoyt would spend time over in crass, dirty Dublin, a town famed for its dirt. Hoyt didn't care for ships, or even small boats.   
    Dumb bastardy, Hoyt thought as he watched the rain soak his mood.   
    Chief Inspector had laid it all out for him, but he knew much of it from the newspaper accounts. On the afternoon of June 28, Sir Arthur Vicars, had reported to Dublin police that he was missing his key to the main door of Bedford Tower at Dublin Castle. Five days later a cleaning woman, a Mrs. Agnes Farrell, told police that when she arrived for work at 7 a.m. she found the main door open, and she noticed that the door to the strongroom, where the Crown Jewels were kept, was open. None of this apparently alerted the dumb bastardy, Hoyt thought when he read the accounts.
    The end result, as Inspector Jones was fond of saying, was that the Star and Badge of the Order of Saint Patrick, known within the Empire as the Irish Crown Jewels, were missing. Hoyt knew that the jewelry included a gem-studded necklace and it showed small gold harps and shamrocks linked together. Harps and shamrocks, indeed! The Badge, he knew, was a sun-burst design, set in gold and diamonds.
    Hoyt found the crime distasteful, for a variety of reasons. First, it involved the Royal Family, and that was abominable. Second, the stupid bastardy could have easily secured the gems. He, Hoyt, had not three years before set up a system of peep holes for guards at the British Museum, and arranged for large guard dogs to roam freely through museum corridors at night. Let any felon try night maneuvers and he would be gored beyond recognition.
    "You'll work with an Inspector Clarke of Dublin police," Jones had told Hoyt. Jones had cleared his throat. "The Home Secretary has given me explicit orders that we are to cooperate in every way, but the Dublin crowd will control the investigation. The minister says the political climate over there is such that it cannot appear that the Yard is sending in a squad or controlling the situation..."
    "But it involves the Royal Family," Hoyt had protested. Jones waved him down.
    "You know the situation over there. Home rule and all that. Agitators, protests. All with one aim - to tear Ireland from the bosom of Empire."
    It's nothing but treason, Hoyt thought but did not say. At his desk Hoyt sat and thought of the unfairness of it all.

 

Still Life, Still Death

Buy: Amazon

Title: Still Life, Still Death

Author: Liam O'Connell

ISBN: 0966788362

Description:

In 1973, an urban underworld of stolen art and smuggled aliens is exposed by F. X. Quill, nightside reporter for The Sun, New York City's must-read tabloid, in the suspense thriller Still Life, Still Death.  In this hardboiled thriller, Quill explores Chinatown and Queens to uncover the story of his new friends' murders and, in the process, learns the tragic truth behind an immigrant family's broken dreams.
    The suspence thriller follows newsman F. X. Quill as he investigates Chinatown to get the story about why his new friends were murdered and learns the tragic truth behind an immigrant family's broken dreams.  Quill tracks the theft of priceless art objects in Manhattan's posh East Side through an urban underworld of stolen art and smuggled aliens of Chinatown. Still Life, Still Death was written by Liam O'Connell, author of several books, an ex-newsman who covered Queens and Manhattan in New York City. With Still Life, Still Death, O'Connell uses his experience in Chinatown and with New York City's art world to weave a suspenseful tale about the efforts of a corrupt gang to exploit the growing détente between the US and China to cover their illegal smuggling scheme.

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Highlights:

Dangerous Ride

He was standing at the pole in the front of the car, swaying with the motion of the speeding train. He wasn't on the subway for a ride to the city. He was there for one thing. He was the spider with the fly. Billy Long's warning came to me like a shout from a nightmare.
    When he saw I had recognized him, he started walking slowly through the passengers on the car toward me. I wasn't excited about what I knew he had in mind. A chill, as cold as a tombstone, shot up my spine. I decided to stay where I was. Having people around meant witnesses. Hold my ground, I thought, shaking though it was.
    He walked slowly down the train. I could see his expression growing taught, serious, his long limbs getting tense like a hunter walking up to his prey. He was wearing a black leather coat that hugged him closely. His pants were cheap black cloth and looked like they had been put on with a can of spray paint.
    When he got to me, his right hand wrapped around the pole, inches from my face. He had dirty fingernails. We stood eye to eye. His left hand was jammed inside the pocket of his coat and with a flick of my eyes I saw the hand move in the pocket as though he was grabbing something I was betting he didn't have a license for.
    His mouth grew a thin smile, giving his oval face a malignant look.   
    "A coincidence, Mr. Quill," he said.
    "I'll bet." He laughed and his breath blew into my face. It stunk. My mind raced. "What's on your mind?" I asked.
    "I'm going to kill you," he said.

_________________________

Excerpt from Chapter 1:

I had spent the past forty-five minutes hard against a three-star deadline of 9 p.m., rewriting a legman in the Bronx who was covering a fire destroying the rectory of a church up there. He kept calling back with quotes, facts and that, while I was trying to write.
    I was working hard. Molloy, the night city editor, my boss, wanted every bit possible in the piece. A fire in the Bronx isn't news, but a fire in the Bronx that destroys a church is.
    Working a story on rewrite with a legman always calling means changing leads, inserting graphs and shouting to the copy desk to fix this and that. So, when I'd given the last take of the story to the copy boy for Molloy, lighted a cigarette and was starting to relax my neck muscles, I felt like a survivor of the Johnstown, PA flood hearing thunder when the call came in.
    I took a breath, put my headset on and said something into the mouthpiece.
    "Quill?" the voice asked. It was Foley. "I'm down at headquarters."
    I knew that I wasn't going to hear about the Bronx fire. All Foley knows about the Bronx is that it's phone book is thin. He's a tipster who works for nobody in particular but every in general and is always at police headquarters downtown. Guys like Foley are called stringers. He gets tips about things, will call us and if we use what he gives, he gets some money.
    "You doing something?" Foley was asking. A good stringer isn't about to waste a tip on somebody is busy.
    Not now," I said. "Get to a brownstone at 432 E. 72nd, near York. See one Paolo Marcotti. He's a big time art dealer, see, a real wheeler-dealer type. Chic chic. Seems some boys stole some of his art. Paintings I hear. Worth a bundle of spendolas for sure..."
    I was tapping all this on my typewriter. "Not on the wire yet?" I asked. After all, if the wire services had the information, Foley wasn't giving in anything exclusive and it meant less money for him and less interest for us.
    "Nobody knows but you," he assured me.   
    He gave me a number of the squad in the 19th Precinct and said to ask for a certain pal of his if I wanted confirmation, which I did. Foley's facts will change on you from time to time. I hung up on him and called the number he gave me. It was the 19th Squad all right, and like Foley said, a pal of his game a one-word confirmation on the theft.
    He wouldn't tell me his name though.
    "How much was stolen?" I asked.
    "Three vases," the cop said, "Oriental jobs. Very old, like before Jesus Christ."
    See what I mean about Foley's facts, his stolen paintings.   
    "You know what they're worth?"
    Foley's pal couldn't say. "There will be insurance companies involved, right pal?"
    "You know where Marcotti is?" I asked.
    "Not at home," Foley's pal said. "Just some Chinese house boy there now. He called the thing in."
    Very good, I thought to myself as I slipped the headphones off. My newspaper, The Sun, is a morning tabloid. Stories about crime among the city's chic set are like fresh fish to a tom-cat.
    I got myself to the top of the long oak table that is The Sun's city desk. There sat Molloy, ignoring most of the chatter on the police and fire radios and the racket of activity around him, reading the two-star edition.   
    We work on nightside, after the day boys go home. It's Molloy's job to know what is in the early edition, and to see what kind of damage the glory boys did to the newspaper. We clean up the day's mess at night so it reads right by the last edition.
    "Molloy," I said to the top of his large bald head. "Got a tip on an art theft on the East Side."
    He raised his large fact, red and fleshy. He gave a slight belch, probably from the milk he drinks because of that ulcer he won't tell anybody about. His expression, like always, said: continue.
    "The victim is a hot shot art dealer, Paolo Marcotti. Three vases were lifted from his brownstone at York and 72nd," I continued.
    Molloy's head bobbed. The wheels inside turned the story possibilities around. A light came to his eyes. He leafed through the one-star to the back of the edition, where the newspaper prints what little art and culture shorts we use. He smiled as he read what he was looking for. He reached to the pile of papers next to his typewriter and tossed me one.
    "Page 83," he instructed. I did like he said and found among the paragraph briefs announcing doings about the art crowd, this item:

                    EXHIBIT SHOWS LAST WORK
                    OF THE LATE ROSS MARKLE

The long awaited showing of the last work of the late impressionist Ross Markle was held last night at the gallery of his confident Paolo Marcotti, the noted art dealer. The exhibit, held at Marcotti's Foxborough Gallery, 101 E. 57th St., included some 25 paintings completed in the 6-months prior to Markle's sudden death last year. More than 80 celebrities from the worlds of politics, show business and society were scheduled to attend.

 

Since the paper is printed for the morning buyers, the reference to "last night" meant it was going on now. As I was reading this, Molloy had asked his assistant to give him the stack of press releases used for the morning edition. When I looked up, Molloy was flipping through the stack of hand-outs. He found the one from Foxborough Gallery and read it.
    "Straight rewrite," he murmured.
    He handed it to me and the only thing I could tell after a glance was that the groups of actors, pols, blue-bloods and cafe-set types assembled at E. 57th St. was quite a cast. Molloy said to the photo assignment editor, "You got a man at the Markle thing?"
    The photo man looked at his schedule, where he listed his dozen photographers' assignments. He ndded.
    "Lots of glitter," the photo editor said.
    Molloy looked at me. "Get over there."

Chapter II

I picked up a cab at 42nd St. and Third Ave. and rode up to 57th St. feeling like a confirmed drinker looking at a full bottle of whiskey. Molloy wanted the thing for all it was worth. I was to interview Marcotti, get the details about his collection at the brownstone, get color and call Lassister, the rewriteman, for the four star.
    It was about 9:15 p.m. when the hack let me out at the corner of Park and 57th. There was no doubt that I had the right place. Foxborough Gallery, midway down the southside of 57th St., was busy. Parked and double-parked outfront were long, black limos. The uniformed chauffeurs talked and smoked together in a group nearby.   
    A bit further away, a crowd of elegantly dressed guests milled around, drinking from cocktail glasses and laughing. Through this scene I moved to the front door, a high-arched bronze frame job. Foxborough Gallery spelled itself out in foot-high gold letters above the door.
    Through the lightly tinted picture windows on both sides of the door, I saw a large display room. Large brightly- colored paintings hung from cream-colored wall panels. They were illuminated by modern klieg lights suspended from the high ceiling. By the way people moved around toward the back, I could tell the main exhibit was upstairs and out of sight.
    I stepped through the doorway and was confronted by a blue-uniformed guard with a square silver shield on his breast. I said something like "hiya bub." He said something like "who are you?"
    "F. X. Quill," I answered, "reporter for The Sun. Came to see Paolo Marcotti."
    All that did was make his eyebrows under his cap brim rise.
    "Identification?"
    I handed him my press card, the one issued by the NYPD. He held it like it was a used handkerchief. While he looked it over, I took out the press release Molloy gave me and read from the letterhead the name of the press contact: John Till.
    "Jacky Till here?" I asked.
    "One moment, please," he said.
    He seemed glad to hand me back my press card. He picked up a telephone receiver from an intercom and said into it that a "reporter from one of the newspapers is here. Is Mr. Till available to come to the front entrance?"
    When he put the receiver down we stood there silently watching each other. I smiled. He didn't. I guess he didn't like my cologne.
    In less than a minute, a man, thin as a reed, wearing a maroon velvet tuxedo, skipped down the stairs at the rear of the display room. He made a few stops, to plant pecks on the cheeks of women in his path, and finally floated over to the front door where I had been watching his performance. He held out his left hand, palm down. I shot it best I could, and introduced myself.
    "So exciting," he minced, "isn't it, Mr. Quill?"
    "Yes, so." I answered. "What?"
    "Why, the exhibit, naturally," he said, perplexed.
    "Yes, the exhibit," I said, vaguely.
    "You are, of course, familiar with your assignment tonight," he said, fearing that I, of course, was not.
    I played along. "Perhaps you can fill me in."
    He eyes went up. He gave me an affected sigh. "Oh, I had hoped your paper would send Blanche. You know her, of course."
    I said yes. Blanch Regan is The Sun's art reviewer. She always impressed me as somewhat of an air head.
    "Well, no matter," Till was continuing, "You're here and that's grand. Anyway, you have, of course, heard of Ross Markle? No? Well, never mind. I see I'll have to start at the beginning. Mr. Markle is, or was, that is, this country's most promising new painter..."
    Till went on this way in many words to explain a simple thing: Markle was the hottest painter in town. And he was represented by Paolo Marcotti, the town's most noted, knowledgeable and successful art dealer. Markle was the pride of Marcotti's painters. Clients from all over the of Markle's paintings. I asked how this was so and after a few false starts it became clear. Markle had gone from being a relatively unknown though modestly successful artist a few years back to this envious position of prominence among the collectors, museums and chic set because of Marcotti's genius at recognizing talent and being able to manage the talent so that it was not wasted. Collectors were honored to be part of this artist's history by being allowed by Marcotti to buy his work.
    All this was so much gas from the sewer; I didn't know about it and cared less. Yet, while Till told me this, I recalled who Markle was. Because this rising star, premier of Marcotti's painters, pet of the chic, six months back had drawn a hot bath, taken off his clothes, gotten into the water, taken out a .38 caliber revolver and rearranged the side of his skull. He was 44.
    "Shocking," Till sighed. "No one has ever understood why he did such a thing."
    I mumbled something about rising too high too fast, for such a thing can destroy eagles.
    "Anyway," Till was continuing, "tonight's exhibit is the first showing of Markle's last work. Mr. Marcotti felt it decent to wait this time before exhibiting the collection in honor of the artist's memory. He invited some of Ross' close friends and admirers and, as you can see, they are here in abundance."
    Till was right about that. During our chat, we had moved from the front door and were standing at the foot of the crowded stairway. The din from the room above spilled down on us like the roar of a waterfall.
    "What's the exhibit for?" I asked.
    Till looked at me queerly, so to speak, and shook his head. "My dear fellow," he sighed, "an exhibit is held to display work to prospective collectors."
    He gave a quick look to both sides. Then he leaned over and put his mouth just a little too close to my right ear. "Minimum for one piece of work, my dear, is $40,000," he whispered.
    I pulled my head back and stepped away a respectable distance. He gave me the willies. But I was thinking about what he said. I have never known how to react to such extravagance. Suffice it to say that there is no piece of canvas with paint on it in the universe that is worth two years salary to me.
    When we got to the top of the stairs, I saw the glitter the photo editor was interested in. The women looked like they were dressed for the display windows of Bloomingdale's most chic shops. Men were dressed in less gaudy but equally expensive clothing. A few tuxedoes, but mostly the velvet and frills Till was sporting. Many of the faces were familiar. I recognized some Broadway actors, a few faces from the late movies on television, a few theater angles. There was Monty Jefferson, the talk show host on public television, sipping cocktails with Wayne Claton and Neal Franks, whose film was going to be released a month from now they said in the trades. There was Jane Smithfield, the local television anchor who was getting more money a year than the network bigs. She was talking to a clothing designer, a guy whose three initials on a tie increase its cost three times. Bunches of women buzzed around waiting for a chance to talk with him. They reminded me of fruit flies.
    There were maybe 150 guests. The room was large, similar to a reception room at a hotel. It had a parquet floor, and pastel colored walls. There was an open champagne bar at the far end. A few black guys with white porter tunics walked around taking orders and bringing them back from a bar on the side. I walked around with Till. In the midst of several large men, I saw a million dollar a picture actress hold up a miniature golden spoon and snort white powder into her nose.
    "Nice crowd," I said to Till, who saw what I saw.
    His eyes went up. "Yes, people do have their habits, don't they?"
    He waved his arms, unconcerned, and continued along. Yes, I thought, this Marcotti did the decent thing. He waited six months so that Markles' admirers could drink, laugh and snort cocaine in his memory while his surviving dealer showed off his work for $40,000 a pop.
    "When's Marcotti getting here?" I asked Till.   
    He shrugged his shoulders. "Quite soon, I'm sure," he said. Then his eyes lighted up. "There Mr. Brockton. Come along, he is a man you should meet."   
    I was only 9:22 p.m. and I was going to be waiting so I played along with him. Till led me midway through the room where he stopped behind a gray-haired man in his early 60's. He gently patted the man's shoulder.   
    "Mr. Brockton?" Till greeted.
    The man turned around. "John," he said, in a nasal, somewhat accented tone. "Good to see you again."
    That was what he said, but I wouldn't take money on whether he meant it. Till didn't look like the kind of guy that Mr. Brockton there would be inviting to his place in the Hamptons. Till didn't have the sense to recognize this and went right ahead with the introductions.
    "As you know, Mr. Brockton," Till kept on after we had exchanged names, "in my capacity as consultant to Mr. Marcotti, I have tried to kindle interest in the popular press of..."
    "Yes, yes, Till," Brockton interrupted. "Good of you to come, Mr. Quill." I said thanks. Then it came to me. William Brockton, sure, one-time Secretary of Commerce. A bit older than the face I remembered, but it was the guy. He had the look of an aging English squire. His thick gray hair was neatly parted and brushed down nearly flat against his long thin head. Around the ears, shining curls defied the oil he'd used to keep the hair in place. He nose was straight and long, his cheeks ruddy and clean shaven. He looked like he could get a million-dollar loan just by saying the alphabet.
    "Mr. Brockton is a trustee of New York Museum," Till was saying.
    "Yes, that's right," Brockton said vaguely. He was more interested in my dark green corduroy suit. It obviously wasn't being worn by The Sun's arts and culture editor. "But Mr. Quill, I'm curious. What brings you here tonight?"
    "To see Paolo Marcotti," I said, evenly. I let it go at that.
    "Well," Brockton replied, picking up the beat, "I'm sure he will be here shortly." He raised his eyebrows at Till who said that yes Mr. Marcotti would be here in no time, etc.
    "While we wait," Brockton said, "why don't I show you the exhibit. Quite exciting, I think."
    I thought, what the hell? I gave a nod and the former Secretary of Commerce led the way to a side door. Till and I followed him into an area much like the display room downstairs, except more complicated. It was a maze of partitioned areas. The partitions were only seven feet high and didn't reach the ceiling. Lights suspended from the ceiling pointed in all directions. Brockton walked into the first area. Till then started the first of his noises: ooo's, aaa's, and like that.
    The area had three walls. They were very white. On each hung a different painting. They were very colorful, I'll give them that.
    No picture, to speak of, just lines and reds, purples, yellows, blacks, greens in a kind of angular anarchy. As we went through the other areas, with Brockton explaining what it all meant, Till was having a ball commenting on the revolution Markle created.
    "Yes," Brockton was saying, "he did have a unique vision."
    That, I was thinking, was true. What I was seeing, though, missed me. I got through maybe 25 paintings. Each was like the other. There wasn't a distinguishable picture in the lot. They were colorful, sure, but so what? So is the slipcover on my bed at home. So much for my appreciation of high art. It took maybe 10 minutes for us to get through the exhibit area. I felt like a foreigner. What Brockton said as simple enough: Markle had captured the confusion of the world, used color and abstract shapes to create a new way of seeing that world. It wasn't my world. I doubted it was Brockton's either.
    "Thanks," I said, when we returned to the main reception area. It was my only response and we stood together now at the door wondering what more to say.
    I was getting anxious to see Marcotti. The minute hand on my watch had moved more than I'd liked. Just then, a voice called from behind me: "William!"
    Brockton's eyes looked to the voice and smiled, like a banker who smiles at the guy who owns the bank. I turned and recognized Brockton's pal as Charles Osgood, the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York, a mouthful to mean he was the chief fed prosecutor in town. I'd covered him plenty.
    "And Mr. F. X. Quill as well," he said when he saw me. He said he was surprised to see me at this affair.
    "Me, too," I said, thinking the same thing about him. I didn't tell him my excuse. As for him, he's been busy doing other things than attending chic parties. Since his appointment two years back, Osgood had done more than most to crack the narcotics, gambling and prostitution rackets. The indictments, dealing with interstate commerce statutes, had been coming down for the past eight or nine months. During that time, I'd talked to him. Though I'd seen him in federal court, mostly I'd dealt with him at night by phone to his house in Westchester County. We were always cleaning up day side mistakes on nightside to get the paper right. For a fed, he was open enough, which was natural. He was ambitious.
    He was about 46, a multi-millionaire son of a plastic bag manufacturer, and a bankroller to the local political party in Bronxville. He'd run for office himself, in a losing race or two, one of them for U. S. Congress. Made him lots of points with the local pols. He was a partner in a Wall Street law firm when the President was elected. Osgood made use of the points earned and got himself appointed U. S. Attorney.
    He stood in a plain tux about five feet eight, weighed 180 or so. His face was round, fleshy and tanned,  like a guy who likes tennis in the good weather and sat under sun lamps in the bad.
    "So why are you here?" I was asking. 
    "I'm an old patron of the arts," he said. He made himself as clear as a glass of smoked whiskey.
    Brockton and Osgood exchanged some light talk and then I asked the fed what he had coming up. He looked at me like a pointer looks at a quail from a distance of one foot. His head didn't move at all when he asked: "What have you heard."
    I shrugged my shoulders. The fact that I'd heard nothing and was just asking a blind question because I didn't know what else to do, was beside the point. I was being nosey. I'd gotten a rise, as though I had in my possession a stolen state secret, so I just kept staring at him.
    "As you know, Mr. Quill," he was saying, still looking like a bird dog, "it is against the policy of my office to discuss pending investigations. I..."
    "Take it easy, Prosecutor," I interrupted. "Just making conversation."
    I had no idea why he was so sensitive. I didn't care. I could wait until whoever knew what was on Osgood's mind told me. I was getting anxious to talk to this guy, Marcotti. I was thinking I had made a mistake coming here. I considered calling Molloy and saying so. It was 9:50 p.m. and I could get to Marcotti's brownstone and probably get inside to talk with the cops or whatever, maybe talk with some neighbors about what they saw or heard, and call all that in by 11 p.m. for the four star. Waiting around at this party was becoming a waste of time.
    This was all going through my head when I saw Leah, who is, shall I say, a good friend. She was across the room smiling at me. I guess she'd been watching me with Till, Brockton and Osgood. It amused her. I excused myself from the trio and walked through the glittering crowd to her the way a man dying of thirst moves toward a pool of water.
    Leah is a commercial designer, just starting her own business. To make ends meet, she works nights at The Sun as a switchboard operator in the city room. It was her night off and I had no idea she was going to be at the party. She had on a black chiffon dress that hung on her shoulders and over her body like a breeze. Her auburn hair fell over his neck and back in waves.
    "Hey, babe," I said, when I reached her. I did what I usually do when I see her someplace other than the 7th floor city room. "Glad you're here."
    She returned my kiss. "Back at you, Fran." Leah is a clean, no nonsense woman, one that can take care of herself. She is lean, firm, whole and, to me, warm. "And what are you doing here? Molloy tired of looking at you?"
    I said probably. But that wasn't why I was here. I told her.
    "Not surprised," she commented. She shook her head making those auburn waves shake like fall-colored leaves in an afternoon breeze. "Happening to a lot of collectors."
    "You've heard of others?"
    "A few. Maybe four or five is as many months. Just rumors, so we haven't had it in the paper. The collectors don't tell the police anything. Bad form, you know."
    I said I'll bet. "How do you know about it?"
    "It's my business to know what happens in this racket I'm in. Remember?" Leah playfully adopted a mock confidence. "You may not know it, Mr. Quill, but I am not just a switchboard operator in the city room who likes what you look like when you walk around."
    I played along. "No?"
    We laughed a little. Then we talked about each other a bit and decided a split of champagne would be a good idea. While sipping the tart bubbles, I asked what she was doing here.
    "It was a must," she answered. "Too many potential clients here for me not to show. My design business won't last until I break into the clique that hands out he jobs. So I go where the clique is."
    I nodded. Her reasoning was as sound as the American flag. "But how do you stand it?" I asked, glancing at the collection of whacks and coke-heads around us.
    She shrugged her shoulders. "Goes with the job. "I was getting antsy again. "You know Marcotti?"
    She was saying yes when I realized we were almost shouting at each other to make ourselves heard. I took her by the arm and walked over to the entrance way at the top of the stairs where the racket accompanying the memorial exhibit to the late Ross Markle seemed less enthusiastic.
    "He came from Hong Kong to the city maybe four years ago," Leah began again. "He must have had a substantial business there because when he opened this gallery he had an impression list of clients in no time."
    She explained that collectors, in effect, were like schools of fish. A new dealer opening a shop is like a fisherman throwing a net into the water. The collectors are spooked and swim away. But when Marcotti opened up, the collectors swam right to him.
    "Somebody leading the way?" I asked.
    "Had to be," she answered. "But you'd never know who. Many collectors are anonymous. But their purchases are known anyway. The trade magazines say this painting was sold quietly for this price by Foxborough Gallery, word of mouth and, of course, there's always the gossip columns."
    "Like Bess Johnson," I suggested. She had a gossip column in The Sun, a press agent's dream. Bess writes six days a week, putting the celebs' names in bold face type in chatty copy detailing that whoever is rumored to be sleeping with so and so, up for this or that part in such and such moving or Broadway production of the stunning whatever. Also, who was eating what with whom at which post bistro and what whoever said about whatever made such an impression on you know who, that you know who is considering pushing whoever' nose around. I mean, let me tell you, my, my. Priceless stuff, bt readers, bless them, lap it up like a sponge.
    "Her and others," Leah was saying.
    It never occurred to me that an art dealer would use a gossip column to create interest in a piece of canvas. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. "Then this exhibit is for the same thing?"
    "Sure."
    "And the price goes up, then, too?"
    "Like a rocket," she said, "and its all a deduction too."
    "Then, if this is so important where the hell is this guy," I mumbled. It was 9:55 p.m. now and the four star deadline was creeping up like a hangover before dawn. Time to get it or forget it.
    "There," Leah said, pointing down the stairway and to the front door, where the square silver shield was holding the door open for a man and his lady guest. "That's him."