young man was hopping lightly from foot to foot as he tried to intimidate T.S. with a stern stare. T.S. ignored it, though he was shocked to see that the kid wore an electronic beeper strapped to his belt. Great, thought T.S. grimly, as he headed uptown one block, we're making progress with our young after all. We've introduced them to the miracles of science. A new age of technologically-advanced drug dealing is dawning.
T.S. was stalling for time and he knew it. He was heading uptown because he had a vague idea that his great-grandparents had once lived on the site of the old Madison Square Garden. The lot where the towering new skyscraper now stood. He felt alone and he felt abandoned. He needed their comfort before embarking on his uncertain task.
The streets of Hell's Kitchen were curiously deserted in the post-twilight hours between curtain rise and curtain fall on nearby Broadway. It was not late enough for the sleaze merchants to be peddling their wares; it was too early for the nightcrawlers to have yet emerged. There was an uneasy peace about the neighborhood, giving it more of an air of a destination, rather than just a stop along the way. Gradually, T.S. became aware that the sensation was not unpleasant. He felt at home.
He reached his block and stood in the shadows of the huge skyscraper at Forty-Ninth and Eighth, looking up at the sky. The big building was nearly dark at this time of night, only the lower residential towers displayed the occasional light. But across the street, a long row of older apartment houses bravely fighting dilapidation blazed defiantly at the steel and concrete intruder. The shabby exteriors proudly housed vibrant interiors: the street twinkled with the lights of many filled rooms.
This was the real heart of Hell's Kitchen, T.S. thought. He had been mistaken when he believed the neighborhood was losing its fight against change. It knew just what it was doing. The lifeline of Hell's Kitchen had not changed one iota since the days of his great-grandfather. It still drew its extraordinary energy from the thousands of lives hidden behind worn doors and thin walls. And not even the drug dealers or prostitutes could vanquish the spirit of the families and people who hung on here. They were tough, he realized, much tougher than he was. They avoided disappointment by not expecting too much of their neighborhood. And they had learned to recognize what was most important to them: a safe place called home, never mind the surrounding streets. Plus a job. Friends and family. Neighbors to nod to on the street. They had no patience or time for anything else. He would do well to remember their lessons.
His first stop was the Delicious Deli. He saw by the clock in the brightly lit but nearly empty restaurant that he would be a few minutes late for his appointment at Emily's building. No matter. He was mere seconds away.
"Help you with anything?" the proprietor asked. T.S. could not remember his name, it was something fairly common. Phil… Willy? No—Bill. Or, rather, Billy.
"I want to leave a message for my aunt," T.S. told him. Perhaps Auntie Lil would stop by here before she went home.
"That's real considerate of you. But this ain't a post office," Billy replied good-naturedly. "I can't guarantee she'll get it."
"It's my Aunt Lil. An elderly lady."
"Oh, her." Billy's eyes rolled back in his head and he sighed. "What's the message? She'll no doubt be snooping back around here soon enough."
"Tell her I went to the building. That I was invited."
Billy stared at T.S. "You went to the building invited," he repeated.
"No. The building."
This time Billy got the inflection right.
As T.S. stepped out again into the night, Billy watched him for a few seconds, then reached for the telephone.
T.S. had expected to see a few of the older actresses disguised as bag ladies scattered around, but Forty-Sixth Street was nearly empty. The long row of restaurants stretched in front of him quietly, seeming to breathe deeply in the break between pre-theater drinks and post-theater suppers. There was one old man parked in a lawn chair on the corner. T.S. checked out his enormous nose surreptitiously. Good heavens. What had happened to the poor fellow? He looked like he'd lost a fight with a meat grinder. T.S. continued down the block, still surprised at the lack of activity. Where was Herbert? Where was Adelle? Or even Franklin? What was this about a