A handful of notes got her access to Mary Kelly’s old room in this rancid dump of a flophouse, but the chamber yielded no sign of its former tenant. A vacant-eyed, anorexic trancer stared unseeingly at Rani from the single rickety chair in the almost lightless shoebox of a room. What she finally learned was that Mary Kelly Number One had died on the streets a couple of months back, choked on her own vomit most likely. She had been a wino so hopeless that even this landlord had kicked her out onto the streets.