20A raw December wind was nipping at me as I headed downtown to the office. No snow, fortunately, but I was toting my galoshes just in case. Mom had always warned me that wet feet were the devil's companion. I still hadn't figured out what that meant, but I had enough trouble on my hands. So, too, apparently did the city. A glimpse at the newspaper headlines at a corner stand informed me that violent crimes were on the rise. I wondered if I would soon be contributing to the statistics.
Too tired to walk the eight flights to my office, I waited for the elevator.
“Morning, Mr. DeWitt. Howzit goin'?”
Nine-thirty and Joe was smashed already. His breath smelled like a combo dinner of sour pickles and marinated herring.
“Fine, Joe,” I said, edging back into the recesses of the lift.
“Have a
