Free Gladyss of the Hunt by Arthur Nersesian

depot. “When I first started working here, it was the newest, most modern building on the block, now it’s the—”
    â€œNo! You’re not supposed to eat sushi on a Sunday,” some young cell-phone retard babbled as he walked beside us. “Cause the last catch is on Friday.”
    â€œIt wasn’t until cell phones were invented that I realized exactly how dumb most people are,” Bernie declared.
    â€œYeah, we went out last night, but absolutely nothing happened!”the cellphoner either didn’t hear or just ignored him.
    â€œâ€™Cause you’re a fucking idiot!” Bernie yelled right in his face. The kid stopped dead on the sidewalk, allowing us to continue without his moronic accompaniment.
    Along the east side of Eighth Avenue, from Forty-second down to Fortieth Street, almost all the buildings had either been torn down or were boarded up.
    â€œBert, my old partner, told me he once dreamed that somewhere on the north slope of Alaska there was a place where all the buildings that are torn down here miraculously reappear.”
    Did that include all the rats and roaches, and the riffraff?”
    Bernie laughed. “Can you imagine, in the middle of some vast wasteland coming upon a frozen city consisting of all the old tenements and office buildings that this city has sloughed off over the years?” he asked. “The old Penn Station, the two former Madison Square Gardens. . .”
    â€œI guess the Twin Towers would be there . . .”
    â€œI wouldn’t mind going there after I die,” he said. “If you don’t look carefully, I mean really look, you can miss how quickly this city shakes off its old skin. It’s always growing another, taller, glistening new one. In a matter of months there’ll be a row of shiny new office buildings there.” Bernie pointed across the street. Word was, the New York Times was going to move its offices to somewhere along Eighth Avenue.
    When we reached Forty-first Street, I noticed Bernie was staring dead ahead. Like a pitbull after a rat, he had caught a scent.
    I tried to figure out who he was looking at, but before I could ask him, he pulled out an inhaler and gave it a hard shake, then pressed it three times while inhaling deeply.
    â€œWould you mind looking behind me and tell me if you see any cops?”
    â€œWhy?” I asked as I turned, wondering if we needed back-up.
    An older African American man in an army coat brushed by me, holding a pair of old shopping bags in each hand. Bernie whipped his arms up in a mock yawn, clocking the poor guy right on the jaw and sending him to the pavement.
    â€œHey! I don’t see many faces from the old days,” Farrell said, eagerly helping the poor man to his feet. The contents of his shoppingbags—packaged bundles of new tube socks—three for ten dollars—were scattered along the icy ground.
    â€œPlease, I don’t want no trouble,” the guy said, searching for the black knit beanie that had fallen off his head. I wasn’t sure what to do.
    â€œSay hello to Youngblood Barnett,” Farrell said to me. “Twenty years ago, he helped hookers off the mean streets of Brooklyn.” Youngblood was no longer young.
    â€œOfficer,” he replied, “I’ve been out for ten years and I don’t do nothing no more.”
    â€œHold on,” Bernie grabbed him. “Last time we talked was in Queens Criminal Court.”
    â€œYeah, and I didn’t get out for twelve years.” Youngblood replied.
    â€œWe still have to catch up about Lily,” Bernie said, and he lunged forward, causing Barnett to jump back and smack his head into a bronze statue of Jackie Gleason’s famed TV character, Ralph Kramden, which had been temporarily installed in front of the bus depot.
    â€œYou’ve got to be careful,” Bernie said with a friendly grin.
    â€œLook, I didn’t know she worked for you, did