WE CROSSED the Brooklyn Bridge to Tillary Street, left to Flushing Avenue. Ran parallel to the highway through Williamsburg. The sidewalk was thick with dark-eyed girls. Young Jewish beauties from the Hebrew high school in Williamsburg. Walking in tight clumps, chattering like sweet birds. All the brightness was in their faces- their clothes were too old for the way their hair bounced at the base of their necks, the way their eyes snapped at life. Mothers wheeled babies in strollers. Hassidim with their black stove-pipe hats and long coats covered ground with purposeful steps. Laughter was for children. Hebrew writing on the walls, iron bars over the windows. Occupied territory, carved out of other ghettos on all sides.
We hadn't walked a block before we picked up cover. Half a dozen men, plain white shirts, dark suspenders, yarmulkes on their heads. Hands in their pockets. One had a coat over his forearm. Israeli soldiers- different uniforms. A clot of young girls passed us, demure but fearless. They were used to strangers.
The group of men watched me as I dialed the pay phone, not making a secret of it. The reporter was waiting for the call.
"Morehouse here."
"You know my voice?"
"Sure."
"You working on anything?"
"Lots of things, man. This a social call?"
"Maybe a trade. You know the shelter by the meat market?"
"Sure."
"Two o'clock coming. On the far corner?"
"Sure."