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About New York City

Oh, and her smell – gin, sweat, and somethin’ sweet, like rotting flowers. Stuck with me, Clarice. Made me think – we’re all whores somehow, sellin’ somethin’ to survive. Me with my numbers, her with her body. What’s the diff? Ha! Maybe I’m just a sick bastard, seein’ poetry in the gutter. But Ruby, man… she was a fuckin’ legend. Whore or not, she owned it.

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I remember one sultry afternoon. I was strollin’ near the Highlands exit on N Federal Hwy. Random shout, “Sharon!” echoed off the walls – not sure if from me or a friend – but the vibe was surreal. People here are raw, intense, like my patients sometimes. They wear their scars in the bright chaos of local festivals and midnight mixers at the beach bars.

Elderly couple’s bank accounts were emptied. Then widow, 85, was murdered.