I thought everybody knew how these things worked, but apparently not.
It started one cold, wet morning in December 1949, when I got a call from a secretary in the Manhattan Criminal Courts building wanting to know what my rate was for tracking down a missing person. My inclination was to quote her something outrageous so I could stay put and nurse my hangover, but my bank account was fast sinking below see level so I told her I was sure we could come to some arrangement and got my bones up and over there.
She turned out to be a sweet old grandmotherly type named Mimi. According to her, a hot dog vendor who had been on the sidewalk in front of the building every day for years was missing. “It’s been three days. We just can’t imagine where he is. He’s always out there through rain and sleet and snow.
We thought we should find out if something happened to him. He’s almost like one of us.”
“Us?” |
