Five-foot piles of rock-hard grimy snow walled the sidewalk from the street. The Messenger-Telegram’s offices were four broad avenues away, between Park and Lex, a pleasant walk across 28th Street if New York weren’t in the grip of the freeze. Taylor hiked his collar up. The other pedestrians were muffled in heavy overcoats and parkas, scarves and hats. He should have put on something like that, instead of Billy’s jacket. This morning he’d considered longjohns but couldn’t find any in the disarray of the Airstream trailer. He woke later than his usual late and rushed to get dressed, once he realized—with a loud curse—that the hot water heater was on the fritz. Should he get the water heater fixed? That might delay repair work on his house, and he was spending everything he could on that.
Six months ago, he’d broken the story on a ring of corrupt detectives on the Harlem vice squad and received a Molotov cocktail through the window as thanks. He needed to get out of the damn trailer in his driveway. His neighbors were running out of patience.
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Lights Out Summer Page 25