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The highlight of the ride was the garbage collectors emptying those green big cans where empty glass bottles and jars get thrown after use. None of the riders had ever seen it done. Some had, from their beds, heard the distant shattering of glass on any weekday in the middle of the night – not at 4:37 p.m. And here was a huge truck with a crane-like hook lifting the dark-green bell-shaped big can in a precarious swing, let go of its bottom above the back of the truck and, swoosh, all the glass down in smithereens. Earsplitting second. In a street nearby, at the lights up and off the avenue, they’d all read the next day, a woman had been killed, unexpectedly, almost à la Crime and Punishment, humid heat perspiring through oppressive clouds, the sound of gunshot must’ve been drowned by the million splinters of glass falling down!

4 Replies to “THE CRIME AT 4:37 P.M.”

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