““Who’s Wendy?” Crawford asked.
“That hooker in the hall. The blonde with the chest. She’s been trying to see him. She doesn’t know anything.”
“Why don’t you let her in?” Graham said from the bedside. His back was to them.
“The man’s dying.”
“Think I don’t know it? I’ve been here since a quarter to fucking six o’clock—excuse me, Nurse.”
“Take a few minutes,” Crawford said. “Get some coffee, put some water on your face. He can’t say anything. If he does, I’ll be here with the recorder.”
“Okay, I could use it.”
When the detective was gone, Graham left Crawford at the bedside and approached the woman in the hall.
“If you’re sure you want to go in there, I’ll take you.”
“I want to. Maybe I ought to go comb my hair.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Graham said.
When the policeman returned, he didn’t try to put her out.”
I live 77 miles away from Zabar’s market in the Upper West Side neighborhood in New York City. I know this because I go there often. I could write up a blog post just on Zabar’s (www.zabars.com) but not now. This post on a fabulous recipe I got from them. Blueberries are in season and inexpensive this time of year. They’re also…