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"No use at all. 'Specially if it was yours."

"Are we still heading for Fulton Street?"

"Sure. We got to get fish for Cat."

"It better be for free."

We walk, threading across Manhattan and downtown.

I guess it's thirty or forty blocks, but after a good lunch it doesn't seem too far.

You can smell the fish market when you're still quite a ways off.

It runs for a half a dozen blocks alongside the East River, with long rows of sheds divided into stores for the different wholesalers.

Around on the side streets there are bars and fish restaurants.

It's too bad we don't have Cat with us because he'd love sniffing at all the fish heads and guts and stuff on the street.

Fish market business is done mostly in the morning, I guess, and now men are hosing down the streets and sweeping fish garbage up into piles.

I get a guy to give me a bag and select a couple of the choicer—and cleaner—looking bits.

I get a nice red snapper head and a small whole fish, looks like a mackerel.

Ben acts as if fish guts make him sick, and as soon as I've got a couple he starts saying "Come on, come on, let's go."

I realize when we're leaving that I don't even notice the fish smell anymore.

You just get used to it.

We walk uptown, quite a hike, along East Broadway and across Grand and Delancey.

There's all kinds of intriguing smells wafting around here: hot breads and pickles and fish cooking.

This is a real Jewish neighborhood, and you can sure tell it's a holiday from the smell of all the dinners cooking.

And lots of people are out in their best clothes gabbing together.

Some of the men wear black skullcaps, and some of them have big black felt hats and long white beards.

We go past a crowd gathering outside a movie house.

"They're not going to the movies," Ben says.

"On holidays sometimes they rent a movie theater for services. It must be getting near time. Come on, I got to hurry."

We trot along the next twenty blocks or so, up First Avenue and to Peter Cooper.