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that apartment had strings.”
    As he waited for the light, Ryan tapped his index cards against the steering wheel. Behind them a jackhammer beat a steady
     rat-a-tat, breaking concrete to make way for the bright new, user-friendly waterfront. He longed for the old dark, dangerous
     waterfront and the huge swinging nets filled with crates of Scotch being dropped on traitorous longshoremen; of fights to
     the death with curved box hooks; of tarantulas lurking in a ton of bananas. It was a less complicated city then, a less complicated
     time. A time when all Detective Anthony Ryan’s family knew about dark, dangerous places were the things he told them.

4
    A t the corner of Broadway and West Forty-seventh a pair of female uniformed cops from Mid-Town North stood outside the yellow
     tape that encircled a van with a crushed roof. The body of the young actress had been removed to the morgue hours earlier,
     but investigators from the Crime Scene Unit were still going through the paces of their particular specialties. Although a
     uniformed cop’s only job was to secure the scene and protect the evidence, midtown cops knew the moment they set foot on the
     street in uniform that they became walking information booths: Where is Broadway? “You’re on it.” Where can I find a cheap
     place to eat? “Jersey.”
    The two attractive rookies were also accustomed to being gawked at by men, particularly foreign men. At the edge of the curb
     a dark, muscular man carrying a large blue duffel bag inched closer to them, straining to make eye contact. He wore a tight
     white turtleneck shirt, accentuating wide shoulders and a narrow waist. His black hair and copper brown skin shone as if oiled
     and polished. The cops ignored him, figuring he’d be gone when the light changed.
    “Another Latin lover to contend with,” one cop said.
    “That’s the juggler,” the other said. “Thinks he’s God’s gift.”
    The light changed and the juggler moved away gracefully despite the heavy bag. When he reached the center island he found
     his performing partner sprawled against the statue of George M. Cohan, snoring peacefully in the morning sun. He let the duffel
     bag slip from his shoulder. The bag contained his juggling props, including three bowling balls, and weighed almost seventy
     pounds. It hit the sidewalk like a clap of thunder.
    “Bastard,” the man yelped. “What is wrong with you? I thought it was bombs.”
    “Russian bombs, Pinto,” the juggler said, laughing. “Your own people’s bombs. Who else would bomb New York?”
    “Bomb is joke to you?” Pinto, the Russian said, squinting into the sunlight. “Scaring people to heart attack is joke. Everything
     big joke.”
    Pinto was a baggy pants clown who specialized in magic. Time and vodka had dulled his skills, but he could still work a crowd.
     His given name was Nickolai Timoshenko. A skin condition, called vitiligo, had earned him the nickname Pinto when he worked
     the one-ring Mexican circuses. That was where he’d first met the juggler Victor Nuñez, twenty years ago. Only eight years
     old then, Victor Nuñez was already a vital part of his family’s trapeze act, which was on its way to becoming the premier
     trapeze act in all the world.
    Victor flattened his back against the cool base of the statue. He shoved Pinto over and they sat shoulder to shoulder in a
     spot they called the best seat on Broadway.
    “Your head should be examined,” Pinto said, peeking around to check the lines.
    The lines for the TKTS booth behind them were already past the statue of Father Duffy, the doughboy priest. The booth carried
     half-priced tickets for that day’s non-sold-out theater performances. On matinee days like today they opened at ten A.M. In a few minutes the lines would stretch all the way back to where they sat, back to the statue of the Yankee Doodle Dandy.
     Hours of waiting, a bored crowd. It was a street performer’s dream.
    “So, last night where was