The Artful Trade

An old friend, a bond salesman, called me that morning from the 68th floor of a high-rise a few blocks away. He described the second jet, low and fast. His voice shook. I told him to get down on the street and head east up to Delancey and over whatever bridge he could into the refuge of Brooklyn. They had turned off the main elevators so he found the freight lift, stumbled in his blue suit down to the street then up through Chinatown, over the bridge and off the island. He walked the 9 miles to Queens and the train back to Long Island. Catching his reflection in a mirror, he saw that blue suit was entirely white, his face chalky, covered with a mist of dry wall and asbestos. He said "I looked like my own ghost." Back then, I could not sleep. I didn’t count sheep. I'm Irish. I count heartaches. For years I walked the streets at night or drove, pretending there was somewhere I needed to be. Late one night, trudging up 10th Avenue, I was stopped by a working girl....