Small voice, big man

By STEWART PIERCE BROWN
Illustrated by SCHELLING
No one had heard of Van Richie for years. Now his songs whispered ghostly through the air, and did their work of love and hate.
Car 43 cruised slowly up Eighth Avenue. At the wheel, Patrolman Vince Ferraro thought mixed thoughts about Patricia Ann Burke. Beside him, Sergeant Gus Kleiber watched the city in a bored and automatic way, his mind on Augustus Junior, about to take his bar exams. The radio crackled in a low key. The evening traffic was light, few people were on the streets.
The Sergeant turned heavily in his seat. You hear that?
What?
A guy singing. Over the radio.
Ferraro shook his head. He pulled over and they listened. Routine police calls squawked from the speaker. Kleiber frowned. No, this was singing. It—there! Faintly behind the official monotone they heard a man's voice singing. You know who that sounds like? Van Richie.
Van Richie? Come on. He's dead.
Could be a record. Anyway, he ain't dead. He made a movie here a while back.
Ten years ago.
Yeah, but he ain't dead.