By Robert Craig
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He shook his head sadly at the thought. If only Mary Tyler Moore were Spanish, the dream would be perfect! A minute later he turned the television on, but kept the sound off. There was still a minute or two before his favorite sitcom, and the salsa’s jangling rhythm had once again lulled him into a state nearing contentment. Working all night was considered the graveyard shift, but Jesus liked it. It was quiet. It paid more money. And he was working midtown. The poor bastards uptown in Harlem and out in the bad sections of Brooklyn and Queens were sitting targets for any crazy prowling the subway’s darkness.
A pro would have offed Harper without batting an eye. That was lucky? It was lucky to live in a city-in a society-where handguns were as available as a pack of cigarettes, and where they were used indiscriminately against innocent people? That’s what scared Corelli. Not that he might be the next one gunned down, but that the basic fabric of the society was unraveling. Every day it became clearer to him that people no longer held themselves-or anybody else, for that matter-in reverence. Dammit, it was the jungle reclaiming the land in an insidious and highly sophisticated form.
We was on the Seventh Avenue express, just shooting the rails between Ninety-sixth and Forty-second. Everything was cool till Slade started staring out the window each time we pulled into Ninety-sixth. ” Miguel nodded. “I asked him what was going down, but he wouldn’t say dick, jes’ kept looking out them windows… said he seen somethin’ outside on the tracks. ” “I don’t know. He jumped off at Ninety-sixth and ran to the end of the platform, you know, at the Ninety-third Street exit, and peered into the tunnel like someone was holdin’ a bag of money up to his eyes.