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The works of darkness.
The neighbourhood for the end of the 42nd Street, down towards the Hudson river, was once a first-class salgsobjekt. Partly because of inflation, partly because of the population explosion, it has not changed, but if the George Washington Bridge and later the Lincoln tunnel had not been built, and 42nd Street until had been maintained – yes, then it would have been cheaper to buy oil wells in Texas.
When the ferry still sailing, was the western end of 42nd Street pr. square foot haunted by several glædespiger than a logihusmadras of bedbugs. There were bars, clothes shops, restaurants, drug stores, hotels and so many neon signs that patruljebetjentene had to go with sunglasses after dark.
Now is the neighborhood abandoned, apart from a femterangs café or two, a hotel, which would receive even Attila the hun, if he could put two dollars on the table, and a saloon, called Tony's.
I made my entrance in Tony's bell a little over ten a damp, bitterly cold evening in mid-January. It was a small room with a cigaretarret floor, seven-eight stalls along one wall and a bar along the other. A drunk, old heron sat in one of the stalls with the front facing the entrance. She offered a blank, the teeth smile at me when I walked past her and placed me on a stool at the bar's far end. There was only one further customer in the room – a gaunt, shabby man with hollow cheeks and dead eyes. He bent forward over his lazy beer and spoke to one or the other, which was not there.
The bartender, a tykmavet guy with hængekinder and gulsotig skin, leaned on the cash register. – What sku it be, Jack? gryntede he.
– Scotch whisky.
– With water at the side of the?