The first thing you notice about Edward Meinecke's apartment is that it's completely dark, even on a brilliant spring morning. The curtains are drawn, the cigarette smoke suffocating, the tv deafening. "Switch on the light! It's right there!" he croaks as you enter his one-room home at West 43rd Street's Woodstock Hotel. Meinecke comes into focus: a tall, unshaven figure with curling yellowed fingernails and a toothless face... More >>>
By Michael Sofronski
When scaffolding fell onto the Woodstock's roof last July, a tenant was killed.