The New Malloy

His rounded shoulders and thick neck filled the upper portions of his wool peacoat. He seemed to carry his frame risen up, as if about to pounce, as if compensating for his smallish stature. He was a tightly wound ball of muscle and tension, with a cigarette clenched in his left fist which he raised to his lips to inhale from far too frequently for his own good. His obvious tension was no doubt due, in part, to the nicotine, along with the possibility of other undisclosed substances.

Where he was heading was far from clear, but he was going there briskly and aggressively, crossing against the Dont Walk light, weaving like a halfback seeking daylight. His pants were dark navy and plain, suggesting manual labor, and his shoes were black hightops, the workboots of the new milennium. In an earlier era he might have been heading to the docks, a childhood friend of Terry Malloy, his outfit today lacking only a grappling hook to perfect the image. But he was downtown, home to only white collars, its workingmen generally limited to busboys serving the office brigade and ironworkers tossing up another tower to house their papermoving crusades.