collar, and squeaked an unintelligible squeak.
“Take a deep breath,” Brass said. “Take two. Then speak.”
Ponce breathed. “Blond, she was,” he said. “Very blond. About this high.” He wiggled the fingers of his extended hand.
Brass estimated. “About five-foot-four.”
“I guess. A red dress, not too long, you know what I mean, and a fur wrap. Like a lady. With a lot of makeup, but, you know, tastefully applied. Like the girls at Leon’s Tip-Toe Inn.”
Sandra snorted. “A blond bimbo with a painted face, and he thinks it’s glamorous.”
Ponce tried to find a place in his shoulder to hide his head.
“Was she alone?” Brass asked.
“There was a gentleman with her.”
“Ponce!” Schreiber uttered. “You didn’t say—”
Ponce shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I forgot, what with everything.”
Brass said, “Describe the man.”
“Short. Very short. Shorter than the lady. Thin. With a nose.” He indicated a nose with his fingers. “Well dressed, in a dark suit and tie and everything.”
“Everything presumably means he was wearing shoes,” Sandra said.
“Black shoes,” Ponce agreed.
Sandra snorted again. “I have to get back to the theater,” she said.
Brass turned to Schneider. “Could you change the locks on the apartment?” he asked. “Don’t clean up inside yet.”
“I’ll do that,” Schreiber agreed.
“Thank you Normy,” Sandra said.
“I hope your mother’s okay,” he said.
“So do I,” she said.
5
We dropped Sandra off and returned to the office; Brass to his great oaken desk to stare out at the Hudson and seek inspiration for his next column, and I to my tiny cubicle with its large but ancient Underwood to resume answering letters, one of the more important and occasionally more interesting parts of my job. Brass believes that all mail from his readers that can be answered should be answered, and that the answers should be concise, honest, courteous, and grammatically correct.
We keep a log of what subjects the letters are on and what column they are in response to, if it’s possible to tell. In today’s mail there was a letter from a man named Pruex in Iowa who had read that “they” were going to saw Manhattan Island loose from its moorings, tow it into the harbor, and then tum it around and bring it back so that the Battery would be at the north end of the island and Washington Heights at the south. He claimed to be “apprised and acquainted with the use of the two-man cross-cut saw,” and could supply his own partner, and wanted to know to whom he would have to apply to get a job. He did not say where he had read this information or who “they” were. I wrote him back that Mr. Brass would certainly look into it and that any information concerning the renovation of Manhattan Island would appear in his column, which Pruex should keep reading regularly.
There was also a missive from a gentlemen named Dochsmann, given name at the moment 279894, who was a guest of the state of New York’s resort facility at Sing Sing for the next eight to twenty years. In three neatly typewritten pages, he claimed a complete lack of connection with the actions for which the state had awarded him his rent-free home on the Hudson and asked Brass to look into it. We averaged two or three letters a week much like this, except that most of them were not typewritten but were laboriously printed in pencil on lined paper, and Brass took them seriously. He and five companions, including another journalist, a retired judge, a police inspector, a detective-novel writer, and one of New York’s leading defense attorneys, made up the Second Chance Club, which gave some few people convicted of serious crimes one last shot at proving their innocence. It also gave Brass enough material for four or five columns a year, but he might well have done it anyway.
All the Second Chance letters were looked at by all the members of the club. If four of the six agreed, then the case
“Take a deep breath,” Brass said. “Take two. Then speak.”
Ponce breathed. “Blond, she was,” he said. “Very blond. About this high.” He wiggled the fingers of his extended hand.
Brass estimated. “About five-foot-four.”
“I guess. A red dress, not too long, you know what I mean, and a fur wrap. Like a lady. With a lot of makeup, but, you know, tastefully applied. Like the girls at Leon’s Tip-Toe Inn.”
Sandra snorted. “A blond bimbo with a painted face, and he thinks it’s glamorous.”
Ponce tried to find a place in his shoulder to hide his head.
“Was she alone?” Brass asked.
“There was a gentleman with her.”
“Ponce!” Schreiber uttered. “You didn’t say—”
Ponce shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I forgot, what with everything.”
Brass said, “Describe the man.”
“Short. Very short. Shorter than the lady. Thin. With a nose.” He indicated a nose with his fingers. “Well dressed, in a dark suit and tie and everything.”
“Everything presumably means he was wearing shoes,” Sandra said.
“Black shoes,” Ponce agreed.
Sandra snorted again. “I have to get back to the theater,” she said.
Brass turned to Schneider. “Could you change the locks on the apartment?” he asked. “Don’t clean up inside yet.”
“I’ll do that,” Schreiber agreed.
“Thank you Normy,” Sandra said.
“I hope your mother’s okay,” he said.
“So do I,” she said.
5
We dropped Sandra off and returned to the office; Brass to his great oaken desk to stare out at the Hudson and seek inspiration for his next column, and I to my tiny cubicle with its large but ancient Underwood to resume answering letters, one of the more important and occasionally more interesting parts of my job. Brass believes that all mail from his readers that can be answered should be answered, and that the answers should be concise, honest, courteous, and grammatically correct.
We keep a log of what subjects the letters are on and what column they are in response to, if it’s possible to tell. In today’s mail there was a letter from a man named Pruex in Iowa who had read that “they” were going to saw Manhattan Island loose from its moorings, tow it into the harbor, and then tum it around and bring it back so that the Battery would be at the north end of the island and Washington Heights at the south. He claimed to be “apprised and acquainted with the use of the two-man cross-cut saw,” and could supply his own partner, and wanted to know to whom he would have to apply to get a job. He did not say where he had read this information or who “they” were. I wrote him back that Mr. Brass would certainly look into it and that any information concerning the renovation of Manhattan Island would appear in his column, which Pruex should keep reading regularly.
There was also a missive from a gentlemen named Dochsmann, given name at the moment 279894, who was a guest of the state of New York’s resort facility at Sing Sing for the next eight to twenty years. In three neatly typewritten pages, he claimed a complete lack of connection with the actions for which the state had awarded him his rent-free home on the Hudson and asked Brass to look into it. We averaged two or three letters a week much like this, except that most of them were not typewritten but were laboriously printed in pencil on lined paper, and Brass took them seriously. He and five companions, including another journalist, a retired judge, a police inspector, a detective-novel writer, and one of New York’s leading defense attorneys, made up the Second Chance Club, which gave some few people convicted of serious crimes one last shot at proving their innocence. It also gave Brass enough material for four or five columns a year, but he might well have done it anyway.
All the Second Chance letters were looked at by all the members of the club. If four of the six agreed, then the case
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