It was the largest taxi garage in Manhattan, with a fleet of three hundred cabs.It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Kowalchuk approached the garage, wearing his blue bomber jacket and gray peaked cap. He had a five-day growth of beard which effectively obscured his features. He’d been spending his nights at the Osborne Hotel in the Bowery area, and his days at various movie theaters. Now he was running low on cash and had to return to work.The garage was two stories high and made of red bricks. Adjacent was a parking lot half full of yellow cabs. It was in a neighborhood of factories and loft buildings.The front proscenium door of the garage was open now that it was spring, and Kowalchuk looked to make sure a cab wasn’t coming out, then slipped inside the greasy dimness of the huge downstairs room. In its center were gas pumps manned by inside workers in their filthy one-piece suits. A line of cabs returning from the day shift entered the rear of the garage and came to a stop beside the pumps.
