At the Point of a. 38

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Murray Gold-liquid brown eyes, soft voice with an occasional trace of a stammer, only five feet six and with skin that seemed a half size too large-didn’t look like a criminal, and this had given him an enormous competitive advantage. Seen coming out of a meeting that had just handed down a death sentence, or ordered that somebody’s knees be broken, he looked like some dim Jewish accountant, who didn’t bet, drink, sniff cocaine or commit adultery, who had never experienced any unusual pain or excitement. Headaches, sore throats, hemorrhoids-never any of the glamorous ailments like ulcers or gonorrhea. Worries about car payments, not about being kidnapped for ransom or murdered by hired hit-men in an expense-account restaurant. Jail-house photographers, artists who can make even an Episcopalian bishop look like a child molester, had had a crack at Gold twice, once for robbery and once for suspicious loitering, early raps which he beat without difficulty. To go by the mug shots, the police had been dozing that day, and had arrested the wrong man.

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