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Columns / Short Stories
Shep was always writing. . .
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July 17, 1957

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The Killer



"GREAT! GREAT! GREAT!" he kept saying to himself foolishly. It was because it was such a superb day. Or something. As he walked west along 42nd Street, it seemed to him that everything looked much sharper than usual, almost as though he were seeing the world through some sort of crystalline lens. And it was hot. The sun beat down on the shoulders of his dacron suit with a pressure that was nearly physical. But it felt good...

Copyright: 1957 The Village Voice

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