Rickshaws and scooters rattle past while women gossip in the gateways, men play games of mahjong, and kids chaseeachother through the dusty backstreets, dodging boxes and washing lines.
Sigismund Blondy had known Alan Zwelish for several years, in the way of a Manhattan neighbor, repeatedly sighting a compelling face in passing instants as one or the other swerved from the street into the entrances of their buildings, which stood across and askew from eachother, or in the same Chase A.T.