Death of the Too-Cute Prostitute [= Man Alone]

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I came out of the cellarway to the street corner and stood there while the rain bit into my face. It was cold and wind-whipped, but it was good. It had a fresh, clean smell, and the rivulets that ran down into my collar had a living feel about them.

Behind me the little guy in the substreet doorway said, “See you,” and threw a friendly wave.

I winked at him. “Thanks, Mutt.”

“Sure, anytime,” he said, and slipped the door shut.

Across the street a cab disgorged a passenger, and when I whistled the driver fingered an okay sign, swept around in a screaming U turn, opened the door for me and took off again in a seemingly single operation.

The crowd was coming out of the Criminal Courts Building now, the photogs in front holding their cameras under their coats while they yelled and waved to the press cars at the curb to look awake. Behind them were the vultures who made the spectator’s seats home, and from their outraged clacking you could sense that they were annoyed at not having something to feed on.

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