Death of a Fulton Fish Market Fixture

The fish men see her still, their Annie, in the hide-and-seek shadows of South Street. She's telling her dirty jokes and doing anything for a buck: hustling newspapers, untaxed cigarettes, favors, those pairs of irregular socks she'd buy cheap on Canal. She's submitting to the elements, calling out "Yoo-hoo" to the snow and the rain and her boys.

For several decades, Annie was the profane mother of the old Fulton Fish Market, that pungent Lower Manhattan place fast becoming a mirage of memory. Making her rounds, running errands, holding her own in the blue banter, she was as much a part of this gruff place as the waxed fish boxes, the forklift-rocking cobblestones, and the cocktail aroma of gasoline, cigarettes and the sea.

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