III. Nine Days' Wonder
The sun's moved to Jersey, the sun's behind Hoboken.
Covers are clicking on typewriters, rolltop desks are closing; elevators go up empty, come down jammed. It's ebbtide in the downtown district, flood in Flatbush, Woodlawn, Dyckman Street, Sheepshead Bay, New Lots Avenue, Canarsie.
Pink sheets, green sheets, gray sheets, FULL MARKET REPORTS, FINALS ON HAVRE DE GRACE. Print squirms among the shop-worn officeworn sagging faces, sore fingertips, aching insteps, strongarm men cram into subway expresses. SENATORS 8, GIANTS 2, DIVA RECOVERS PEARLS, $800,000 ROBBERY.
It's ebbtide on Wall Street, floodtide in the Bronx.
The sun's gone down in Jersey.
" GODAMIGHTY," shouted Phil Sandbourne and pounded with his fist on the desk, "I don't think so. . . . A man's morals a
