rest was just miscellaneous desk trash. But he gave the mess a quick stir anyway, just in case—and uncovered a trove, a gleaming trove! Sheet music! Sugary white-bread tunes. “Gentle on My Mind.” “The Impossible Dream.” “On the Road Again.” Some spoiled brat in the tower above him, practicing with sodden fingers every Tuesday and Thursday, till she was old enough to bail out, to ditch this foolishness.
But sheet music no matter how corny was always a pleasure to Romulus.
He took a sheaf of it and put it in his outermost coat, slid it through the tear in the lining. Then moved on before the doorman could start something.
He went about a block and it was getting dark and he was tired, he’d lost that momentum now, and he stopped where he was and sat on the sidewalk, with his back to the blond brick.
When he dipped his head, he caught a whiff of his own stink. A bubble of deep rank sincere stink. Made him ashamed of himself. Usually he showered and washed his clothes at least once a month at the Franciscans’ down on Broadway and 112th. Cleanliness—that was a point of pride with him. After all, he had his daughter’s reputation to think of. He had his handsome rocky home—homeowner’s pride. Could such an upstanding prophet in the community go about ill-groomed? But these last few weeks—such cold! He kept putting off going down to the Franciscans, kept waiting for a break in the weather—and pride had gotten itself frozen out.
Just frozen out.
Frozen, iced-over, snowed in . . .
He woke with a start. Shook his head to clear it. The newspaper was on his lap. He took it up, and braced himself.
He was ready to confront the Ice Apollo again, in a big front-page spread.
But the front page was enthralled by the VALENTINE GHOUL , who’d been caught digging up Andy Warhol’s grave. She swore that he’d asked her to.
“He wants to be my love-zombie.”
Then pages two through six were communiqués from various SPURIOUS AND TRUMPED-UP WARS around the planet. The soldiers wore the same faces, just different uniforms. Of course. They were all extras.
Pages seven through twelve were taken up with the TEARFUL CONFESSIONS of pols who admitted to robbing the public blind but who promised to cut back just as soon as they could.
He was almost to the classifieds before he found what he was looking for.
HOMELESS MAN FOUND FROZEN TO DEATH
The lifeless body of Andrew Scott Gates, 20, was discovered early this morning in a remote section of Inwood Park on the northern tip of Manhattan. A preliminary autopsy report indicates that Mr. Gates was the victim of exposure to the sub-zero temperatures that have prevailed in the metropolitan area for more than a week.
Mr. Gates, an unemployed model, had been living since November at 144 East 4th Street, in a building owned by the city of New York but occupied by squatters.
Early this month, however, according to other tenants of the building, Mr. Gates had moved out onto the street. “He was depressed,” said Laurie Black, who lives with her husband in another room of the building. “He thought maybe he was dying of AIDS, and he kept talking about people out to get him.”
For some time after leaving the East 4th Street address, Mr. Gates had been noticed in and around the tent village at Tompkins Square Park. He had not been seen, however, for nearly a week.
Mr. Gates’s body may have lain undiscovered for several days, said Lieutenant Detective John Cork of the 34th Precinct. “It’s a little-trafficked area of the park. He might still be lying there if another homeless man hadn’t run across him.”
When found, the body was dressed in light summer clothes and an open coat. There were no indications of violence. Lieutenant Cork speculated that Mr. Gates may have been seeking shelter in one of the park’s shallow caves.
The police will conduct a thorough investigation, said Lieutenant Cork.
Mr. Gates is the third homeless man whose death has been
But sheet music no matter how corny was always a pleasure to Romulus.
He took a sheaf of it and put it in his outermost coat, slid it through the tear in the lining. Then moved on before the doorman could start something.
He went about a block and it was getting dark and he was tired, he’d lost that momentum now, and he stopped where he was and sat on the sidewalk, with his back to the blond brick.
When he dipped his head, he caught a whiff of his own stink. A bubble of deep rank sincere stink. Made him ashamed of himself. Usually he showered and washed his clothes at least once a month at the Franciscans’ down on Broadway and 112th. Cleanliness—that was a point of pride with him. After all, he had his daughter’s reputation to think of. He had his handsome rocky home—homeowner’s pride. Could such an upstanding prophet in the community go about ill-groomed? But these last few weeks—such cold! He kept putting off going down to the Franciscans, kept waiting for a break in the weather—and pride had gotten itself frozen out.
Just frozen out.
Frozen, iced-over, snowed in . . .
He woke with a start. Shook his head to clear it. The newspaper was on his lap. He took it up, and braced himself.
He was ready to confront the Ice Apollo again, in a big front-page spread.
But the front page was enthralled by the VALENTINE GHOUL , who’d been caught digging up Andy Warhol’s grave. She swore that he’d asked her to.
“He wants to be my love-zombie.”
Then pages two through six were communiqués from various SPURIOUS AND TRUMPED-UP WARS around the planet. The soldiers wore the same faces, just different uniforms. Of course. They were all extras.
Pages seven through twelve were taken up with the TEARFUL CONFESSIONS of pols who admitted to robbing the public blind but who promised to cut back just as soon as they could.
He was almost to the classifieds before he found what he was looking for.
HOMELESS MAN FOUND FROZEN TO DEATH
The lifeless body of Andrew Scott Gates, 20, was discovered early this morning in a remote section of Inwood Park on the northern tip of Manhattan. A preliminary autopsy report indicates that Mr. Gates was the victim of exposure to the sub-zero temperatures that have prevailed in the metropolitan area for more than a week.
Mr. Gates, an unemployed model, had been living since November at 144 East 4th Street, in a building owned by the city of New York but occupied by squatters.
Early this month, however, according to other tenants of the building, Mr. Gates had moved out onto the street. “He was depressed,” said Laurie Black, who lives with her husband in another room of the building. “He thought maybe he was dying of AIDS, and he kept talking about people out to get him.”
For some time after leaving the East 4th Street address, Mr. Gates had been noticed in and around the tent village at Tompkins Square Park. He had not been seen, however, for nearly a week.
Mr. Gates’s body may have lain undiscovered for several days, said Lieutenant Detective John Cork of the 34th Precinct. “It’s a little-trafficked area of the park. He might still be lying there if another homeless man hadn’t run across him.”
When found, the body was dressed in light summer clothes and an open coat. There were no indications of violence. Lieutenant Cork speculated that Mr. Gates may have been seeking shelter in one of the park’s shallow caves.
The police will conduct a thorough investigation, said Lieutenant Cork.
Mr. Gates is the third homeless man whose death has been
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