A Strange Kind of Love

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I got off the subway at 86th and Broadway and clawed my way through the usual mob of people, hauling myself up the stairwell to the street. The air smelled good — even the soot and sweat and all the stinks of New York were good all of a sudden.

I felt at home, and I hadn’t felt like that since I left New York.

It’s a funny thing and it’s a thing that never fails. If you start in New York you’ll never have another home, no matter how long you’re away or how many other burgs you hit. The subway was crowded and the air outside was stale and musty, but that didn’t make a hell of a lot of difference.

Dan Larkin was home.

There were no brass bands. There was no ticker tape parade with Grover Whelan sitting up there next to me, nothing like that. Dan Larkin was home — and nobody in the world gave a good goddamn.

I shook my head, realizing that I’d been standing on the street corner like a lost sheep for about five minutes. The light turned and I crossed Broadway, then headed south and east again on 85th Street. Walking was easier; walking gave me something to do so I wouldn’t have to bother thinking.

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