I was on my way to Essex station to catch the F uptown when I saw Schmecky, buttoned-down in topcoat and bowler as though he just stepped out of a Civil War daguerrotype.
“Hey hey! Samuel!” he croaked.
We shook hands. Up close he did not look good. Bags under his eyes, deep creases bracketing the mouth.
“How’s the bakery?” I asked.
His face fell. “We had to sell out. These damned Wall Street children and their trust funds. You know they turned the old Adath Jashurun into a loft? A loft with the Ten Commandments on it. Oy veh.”