to midnight seven days a week, hours the Shelter kept as well. Matthews led LaMoia back to the bottom of an extremely old stone staircase that they’d descended on their way in. A few thousand runaways had traveled this same route over the last year. “After this we’re gonna want to take a lap around the block,” he said, “looking for jimmied doors, storm drains, basement windows—something with access to whatever’s on the other side of these walls.” The walls had been constructed of large stone and whitewashed. “But even though we gotta do that, my money’s on the Blessed Virgin—or whatever the flock this particular set of bells is called—because with them leaving the doors open all hours, the bums have got all sorts of access. One door somewhere down here, a few loose stones is all it would take.” “You’re a real poet, you know that?” “Do we know where either of these doors lead?” They were heavy doors, old and of dark wood and cast-iron hardware. Medieval, like something from a castle dungeon.
What do You think about The Art Of Deception (2002)?
