Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 3, June 1961

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With the help of the Greek he was on his way back up, out of the gutter. But the path was too easy... and he couldn’t figure the angle.

As usual the fog and rain caught Grimes flat-footed. As usual he was tanked up, half-starved with white blotches on his once pink cheeks, and dead to the world. Without a sou in his pocket for a dry flop for the night. But it was normal procedure for Grimesy — s.o.p. for the past two years.

Two years ago tonight to be exact he had left Laraine in his expensive apartment uptown and hit skid row for good. He had been cracking up slowly before that because he suspected she was playing fast and loose with him. When he found her with her beau, he simply walked out of the apartment and down to Morton Street clear across town and into oblivion. That night, too, had been foul with rain and mist.

It was a rotten world.

Tonight was as bad as far as the psychology of a wino was concerned. He woke up feeling as if a bag of cement had fallen on his back. Rheumatic pains lanced him up and down. He groaned and tumbled off the packing cases behind Angelo’s market and staggered out of the alley. Framed in the glowing mist at the end of it a cop peered in and went past. Grimes ploughed across the street, narrowly missed being cabbed, and plunged into the Greek’s barroom.

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