The Seven File

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At ten-thirty in the morning a big man in a black leather jacket turned off Second Avenue into Thirty-first Street. He stopped for a moment to check the number on a building, then continued down the block, limping slightly, favoring his left leg.

The day was bright with early spring sunlight. Children played along the sidewalks, piercing the iron sound of traffic with laughter, and here and there old men sat out on fire escapes, soaking up the soft, thin sun.

The man in the leather jacket kept his eyes on the numbers as he limped past a tailor shop, a cigar store and several old tenements which had recently been converted into smart and functional town houses. The area was in a state of inevitable transition; drab old shops were giving way to florists and interior decorators; and families that had lived here for half a century were being displaced by people who had the taste and means to turn these stately relics into chic, in-town homes. There were children in the block who had grown up like a fungus on the city’s sidewalks; there were others who went to school in taxis, who spent their week ends in the country, and who never went outside unless accompanied by maids or nurses.

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