Grandfather leaned back and closed his eyes. “And now, in the 30 minutes left before Sheldon Lachs’ comes through the door, I would like to rest and gather my thoughts.”
While Grandfather retired into his thoughts, I headed over to Court Street and then a few blocks to Columbus Park. It was a warm fall day, and heeding what Grandfather had been drilling into me about premature conclusions, I needed some air to rid my head of its certainty that the trophy was the murder weapon. And I wasn’t looking forward to talking to Michael Charnick in the evening. I didn’t like the East Village scene, didn’t feel comfortable with the type of people that lived there, and judged harshly its dissipated worldview. Part of me didn’t want to find Michael when I came by, but a greater part of me said, “grow
