And despite the sterility implied in the "concrete canyons" of lore, there were as many smells to this world as might linger in any rain forest. As he strode along, reacquainting himself with the rhythm of the evenly spaced city blocks, ignoring the metronomically regular pedestrian crosswalk signs in favor of what the traffic was really doing, Willy Kunkle picked up dozens of odors, some sour, some surprisingly sweet, most reminiscent of food, cooking or rotting, depending on his proximity to restaurant or alleyway. Most surprising was the occasional whiff of grass or silage, a furtive gift from an elusive Mother Nature.

Willy had walked such streets as a beat cop, fresh out of the academy, both proud and nervous to be in uniform, conscious of the heavy.38 bumping his hip, and honing the sarcastic, tough-guy demeanor he'd used defensively at home and which would become his trademark. He instinctively sought the company of the rougher crowd at the precinct, the guys who bent the rules and made sure the law was enforced to their own best advantage-the bullies and braggarts who in later years would turn his stomach and rank among his favorite targets.

It seemed so long ago now, before he went to Vietnam, before the booze he began sharing with those same men became more than a social habit, before he fled to Vermont, got married, and hit bottom.

There had been good times during his short stint as a New York cop, times of redemption and grace when his actions had benefited others. Why those moments hadn't guided him instead of being mere oases, he didn't know. Nor did he fully remember why he'd left to enlist, although there was a typical perverseness to joining a wrongheaded war everybody knew was a defeat in the making, and which even the right-wingers were hardpressed to defend. When Willy landed in Vietnam, the fall of Saigon was barely a year away.