“… four, five, six magazines, a pullover, a comb, half a… a… I don’t know, I guess it’s a baguette,” the partner said. “A French bread. Whatever.” The detective took notes. “A couple napkins. Bag of Doritos. A WKXW-FM baseball cap.”

“He must have got that at the Turtle Bay street fair,” the detective said. “They were giving them away on Saturday. I got one.”

The partner looked up.

“Never mind,” the detective said. “Go on.”

“One sneaker, no laces. One copy of The Dark Half by Stephen King, paperback, no cover. One plastic cup. A roll of toilet paper. A disposable razor. Three, four, five soda cans, empty. One pocket Bible.” He stopped, glanced around. “That’s it.” The partner noticed the issue of Cosmopolitan that was lying in the corner. He picked it up, shook off a cigarette butt, and held it out to the detective. “One more magazine.”

The detective added it to the list, then flipped his notebook closed and dropped the wet magazine back where it had been lying. He slipped the photos and the business card back into the wallet. “Poor bastard. Guy had a good job once. Had a place to live. Had a family.”

“Once upon a time. What he had now was a baseball cap and six copies of Cosmopolitan magazine. Seven, excuse me.”

“What the hell’s wrong with this city? An old man like this lying dead in a doorway, nobody even calls it in.”

“It’s New York, what do you want?”

“The man’s lying there, dead. An old man, dead on the street, and people just walk past him.”

“This is news to you?”

The detective walked back to the prowl car waiting at the curb. “You know, my father’s name was Harold.”

“Lots of people’s name is Harold, man. Snap out of it. This guy’s not your father. It’s a homeless man was out in the rain too long. Sad story. Unhappy ending. Life goes on.”

“Not for him,” the detective said.

Angela’s finger hovered over the cigarettes, lined up in three neat rows. Finally, her hand darted out and came back with one clamped between thumb and forefinger.