“Put the question to him today and Father Bowen is more likely to rub a leathery grin into his jaw and quote that profane authority, Ellery Queen, on the Case of the False Claimant. Father Bowen’s flock being pastured in the West Forties, it is plentifully mixed with black sheep. Until last year one of his sorriest blessings was a gay old ewe known to the touts, newspaper vendors, bartenders, carny boys, cops, and other habitués of Broadway as the Witch—a hag with lank gray-blonde locks, cheeks ...like bark, and runny blue eyes, who wore sidewalk-length skirts, an outrageous shawl, and a man’s fedora which came from some night club trash can. The Witch lived alone in a basement hole over toward Tenth Avenue, and she bounded forth at night to sell violets, corsages of gardenias, and policy tickets under the marquees and neon signs. Toward morning—she was of English blood, her name being Wichingame—she could usually be found at some all-night bar before a long row of empty gin-and-tonic glasses, singing “Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Morning”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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