After wiffle ball, we used to love going for ice cream cones at Moon Dog on Bleecker Street. That's long gone, replaced by one of those antiseptic designer stores that have infested Bleecker. They sure are pretty, but they always seem to be empty.
The Jacksonian begins with Rosie, wrapped in a blanket, howling that a murder is going to take place. It's immediately followed by Bill, wearing a bloodstained white shirt, entering to scoop ice from a large container.