I was. In later rationalization, I suppose I could claim that I knew the leader of the band in which Laraine Marsh sang was a kid named Dave Ryan who happened to be a part-time presser in Johnny’s tailor shop. In truth, I did not know this when I offered to accompany Laraine to her rehearsal. I went with her because of a good many sound investigatory reasons, naturally. But the real reason I went with her was because she was a blonde who reminded me of Toni, and I was back where I had first met my ex-wife, and I wanted to be near this woman, and that was it. As a matter of fact, there weren’t any investigatory considerations involved at all. I was digressing. I admit it. Shoot me. The rehearsal was held in the basement of an apartment building on 116th Street, just off Third Avenue. The rain had washed the sidewalks and the asphalt, and water rushed in the gutters toward the sewers. It was only eight-thirty or so, still not dark, but a few lights had come on, and the sky westward was already washed with a soft duskiness.
