It was the seedy side of Macy’s, 35th Street between Broadway and 7th, an entire city block of loading docks and filth so thick you couldn’t see through it to the gutter. It was the side of Macy’s not caught by cameras during the Thanksgiving Day Parade.She was young and physically rich, slender with a small waist and full breasts. She looked good in her short, blue dress, the quintessence of red-light couture. It was tight in all the right places—a workingman’s fantasy, for sale right there on the street.She had walked several blocks from the Westside, trying to wave down a taxi for a ride home. She finally stopped and rummaged in her patent leather bag for a pair of flats. Alternately balancing on one foot then the other, she removed her pumps and slipped on her comfortable shoes. She pushed her heels into the bag with an authoritative shove—quitting time; for her it was the equivalent of punching a time clock.A taxi streaked by, passing her as if she didn’t exist. An icy rain began to fall that felt like pinpricks against her bare arms.
