Otto perked his head.
“Maybe ... I know him.”
Matt Higgins shook his head.
“No. You couldn’t know him. He’s high-hat as hell. Only lets me see him half a day every six months.... He’s my ... weak spot!”
He slid from the stool and stepped aside. Four medical students jostled through the door.
Otto mopped his counter, slowly, thoughtfully, painstakingly.
Matt Higgins tipped his gray hat over his narrowed eyes, and went through the door.
That man knew something ... but there was no use trying to get him to....
He turned down Beeker Street and made his way over to Wilson Boulevard, one end of which was façaded by the Elijah Wilson group; the other was bounded by the River. He looked back over his shoulder to see if he could get a glimpse of anything denoting the river. Only a curling line of smoke from a ferry-boat.
The air was clear, still and comforting and the people all walked like New Yorkers. But the women didn’t amount to much. No good legs. No poise. No New York verve.