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cleaners who worked in Manhattan at night servicing the high risers, generally from 6:00 P.M. until 2:00 A.M. They would often be seen walking from the ferry, right up Victory Boulevard and along Bay Street, saving the bus fare.
     
    Anyway, one day Frank and I were doing a day tour and we got a job from Central directing us to respond to a family dispute at an old wooden framed, two-story house on Sand Street. As soon as we pulled up in front of the home we noticed pretty yellow flowers that had been planted along the crumbling edge of the ancient sidewalk. The front yard was small but well-kept and had a religious statue adorning it. To the left of the statue were several plastic Disney characters which had obviously been repainted. It was very apparent that the family who lived here at least tried to maintain some neatness to the neighborhood.
    This area that had been taken over by the Albanians was a welcome change. Previously it had been inhabited by mostly blacks. In those days the yards were untouched and the household garbage barely made it outside into pails. More often than not the garbage was just flung out to the yards and street.
     
    Lt. A. continued with his reminiscing and Charlie listened attentively.
     
    Because of all the chicken bones and ribs which littered the streets and yards on Sand Street, the guys in the precinct used to call it “chicken bone alley”.
    We approached the front door and gave it a few raps with our night-sticks, and after several seconds, a woman who was probably in her late thirties or early forties greeted us. She was wearing an old, blue house dress that reminded me of something my seventy year old grandmother would have worn. It was tattered and covered with stains. The woman’s face was weather-beaten and the wrinkles on her brow hid a multitude of pain and sorrow. It looked as if she had been crying because her left hand clenched a snot-laden tissue and her eyes were as red as beets. She kept turning around and looking behind her as if she expected a fire breathing dragon to suddenly appear and drag her away.
     
    Eventually she motioned for us to come in and led us to a front parlor. Close to one wall was a table with a dirty lace doily. In the center of the table was a cracked flower vase with no flowers in it. A mirror hung on one plaster wall, deep cracks running across it in all directions. The room was fairly clean even though it was sparse. To this day I still remember the aroma of cooking cabbage that filled the room; it smelled good. After several long seconds, the woman began to speak to us with a broken accent.
     
    Lt. A. paused to take a sip of his coffee then continued.
     
    The woman’s voice was aged and tired.
    “Please to sit down, here. My husban d he has been drinking the vodka for two days now. He become very mean when he drink the vodka,” she moaned.
    “Where is he now?” asked Frank.
    “He is basement with dogs,” she answered.
    Both Frank and I were concerned about their dogs so we asked her what breed they were.
    “We have two Rottweiler. They are friendly. Not to worry, ok?” she offered as if reading our minds.
    “Does your husband have any guns in the house?” asked Frank.
    “No. He have no gun in house. That I am sure,” she said.
    Frank and I were curious as to why she had called the police. Searching for one of the many puzzle pieces, Frank asked, “Did he hit you?”
    “No. It is not for me. I call for my daughter,” she explained.
     
    “Your daughter?” Frank asked with surprise. “Where is she? How old is she?”
     
    Lt. A. glanced at Charlie with a brief smile, his eyes bright with the memories.
    “Frank came out with so many questions all at once. He was good at that.”
     
    “My daughter is in attic. She is fourteen-year old and she come home from school with bad report card. My husband punish her.”
    The woman fell silent as she began to cry again.
    “What did your husband do? Did he lock her in? Is her room