Greenwich Village is many things to many people. There is the residential area where tall apartment houses tower over the lower, older buildings that still wear the grime they acquired in the days when they were “under the El.” There are the small tearooms, almost cheek by jowl with the dives and cellars that keep the vice squad working a full schedule. There are the gift shoppes, the art galleries, the bookstores. There are the Bohemian hangouts, real and affected, that bring the tourists from Oshkosh and Schenectady to see how the other half lives and loves.
Johnny Liddell knew them all—the tourist traps, the “closed clubs” restricted to members of one s*x, the peeler joints with their whispered promises of further excitement behind closed and bolted doors for the proper fee. He neither
