A knit muffler was wrapped tightly around his throat, and his large hands were encased in black leather gloves. He was still cold, not only because of the weather but because of what he was about to do. Looking around didn’t make him feel any warmer. This was the seventies, and the Times Square area was a mess and getting worse. Many of the great old theaters were closed. Peep shows and X-rated bookshops had taken their place. Discarded needles crunched like candy beneath Quinn’s clunky black size-twelve shoes. It was too cold for prostitutes to be roaming the streets this brisk December morning, but various other suspicious and more malevolent types were braving the biting wind to walk the stone canyons looking for whatever kind of score they wanted or needed. The wind set the litter in the street into motion, the flyers and cigarette butts and crumpled newspaper. With each gust, empty beer cans went rolling. It was no wonder people referred to the area as “Slime Square.” Quinn was on his way to see some of that slime now.
