Ten years on, this graffiti memorial to Tony, along 10th Street at Avenue B, slowly sheds its spray-painted skin. Perhaps soon to disappear completely, like so many other murals, should a new building owner have a different concept of what constitutes art. The neighborhood has been constantly changing. Defiantly though, the history of these streets is recorded on the walls in bright color. In the early morning hours, as the fierce sounds of rising metal gates echo through the neighborhood, Chico’s murals tell the story of the Loisaida.

People say Chico never wears a mask when he works, and the story goes that the noxious Krylon fumes have made him insane. No one can remember a time when the neighborhood wasn’t one big gallery of his work. He used to do his own thing, hitting abandoned buildings with bright motifs. Got arrested a few times. His first mural — long gone — was a jab at then President Reagan: a tank driving toward the words "World War III." Then local businesses offered to pay him $100, then more, to paint walls near their stores. It’s strange to see his rendition of larger-than-life cutesy pets on one corner, and the sounds and sights of the barrio on the next, but someone was footing the bill — Chico was making ends meet, he was getting known. Families and dealers came knocking to put up memorials to the dead.

There are distinct qualities within each piece: tone, depth and subject. At 12th and A, a cartoonish cucaracha holds court with a fiendish rat, promoting a local pest control service. Just after September 11th, 2001, Chico painted a simple, lasting memorial on Avenue A, just south of 14th Street. Flowers and candles showed up within minutes. Today, it ages peacefully, unblemished, part of the neighborhood’s fabric.

According to those in the neighborhood, Chico’s been at it since the early 1980s, maybe even before that, tagging the old redbird subway cars after sneaking into locked rail yards. Grew up in the projects on Avenue D, the Jacob Riis Houses. Just moved back there recently from a few avenues over. Actually started working there again, too. Wanted a job so badly after he dropped out of high school, that he would tag "Chico" on the building manager’s door — the name his mom used when he was little because he looked like old man Chico back in Puerto Rico. Each time it was painted over he would tag it again. One evening, the police showed up at his door. Word on the street had it that Antonio Garcia was the perpetrator. They saw Antonio’s – err, Chico’s – canvasses stacked against the wall next to cans of spray paint. He pleaded that he was an artist and simply wanted a job. He wanted to beautify and speak to his neighborhood. Fight back against the graffiti. Next thing, Chico got paid to color the drab high-rise community.

It seems remarkable how difficult it is to find this man whose name dots block after block within the area bounded by Avenues A and D, from Houston to 14th Streets. Someone mentioned a bar he frequents after work. A few more inquiries and ensuing directives to other bars and it seems pretty clear that the man enjoys a drink. Walking into a tiny joint on C, a small, three-dimensional, spray-painted bust protrudes from a canvas, "Chico" scrawled tightly in its corner. The bartender hasn’t seen Chico in a while. No one has seen him, actually. Seems he disappears on occasion. Heard he was over in Germany doing murals in restaurants. Or was it Japan this time? They love his stuff over there.

The slick-haired bar manager saunters over in a pair of black, pleated pants. Two henchmen with indecipherable foreign accents cackle next to him. They speak about Chico with simultaneous fondness for his art and disgust with his antics, clenching and unclenching their enormous fists as they talk. A head pops out from behind two turntables. This guy, skinny, pale, practically trips over himself as he busts out a laptop. He throws a greasy bang behind his ear and begins a slideshow of the mural that Chico recently painted in his apartment. A subway car bursts through a brick wall. One of those old redbird varieties. He proceeds to pull over other slackers at the bar to show this off, then he jumps back behind the decks.

Over on Avenue D, an explosion of bright faces and messages to people flicker from the walls, the drab browns replaced. Even in the snow, with bike frames rusting along a sagging chain link fence, it feels like summer, thanks to a huge bright mural of the weekly farmers mercado.

Houston marks the end of the line and the gateway to other distinct parts of the city. High above the street, the recently departed Celia Cruz smiles broadly from a mural that went up right after she died. A guy cruises past and notes that before Celia, the canvas contained the Pope, his hands held out with Saddam on one side and Bush on the other. Legend has it, the FBI told Chico to take the mural down. Facing the heat, he proceeded to paint over the politicos and left the Pope. Here and there, a few posers have left weak tags on Chico’s art. But for the most part, his work is left untouched. This is Chico’s Loisaida. But he is nowhere to be found. And he seems to like it that way.

“When I got out of school in 1965,” Elle says, returning to her stool at the bar, “every job I went for: they wanted you to type! I had platinum blonde hair and wore too much make-up…. I couldn’t get a job. They wanted navy blue suits and little white gloves. I just didn’t fit the bill.”

When she walked into the New York Playboy Club at 59th and 5th, however, a glitzy but innocent Italian girl from Queens, she was promptly hired. Her wizened collegues dubbed her “The Lone Virgin.”

She says in the 60′s, those early days of the Club were about celebrities, glamour, exclusivity — guests needed a Playboy key to gain entrance; it was a kingdom unto itself. The swanky playmate bar on the first floor. A living room above on the mezzanine with a decadent buffet and glossy dancing floor. On the third level was a velvet VIP room with fine French dining and specially trained Bunnies wearing blue velvet costumes to match. Upstairs, the playroom and then the penthouse playing four shows a night of jazz, magic acts, comedy, musical reviews to packed houses.

“And back then,” Elle tells, “a drink was $1.50 and a filet mignon was $1.50. That was a lot for a drink. In those days, most bars charged 40 cents for a shot.” Naturally, the Bunnies did very well. One night while working the showroom, a patron told a wagging bunny, “‘Every time you walk by my table, I will give you fifty dollars.’” Elle pulled in $500 a week when the average secretary was making $75. But as good as the money was, Elle’s most animated when talking about the camaraderie.

“That Bunny dressing room was a magical place,” she whistles. “It had everything you could need from mascara to a shoulder to cry on. . . . It was a safe haven. There is something about standing stark-ass naked next to another human being day after day.”

While the Playboy logo is synonymous with sex and hedonism, she says that the club was actually rather tame. “As liberal as the magazine is, that’s how conservative the clubs were. You saw more cleavage on the women who came into the club than on the women working the floor.” Customers were not allowed to know a Bunny’s last name nor any other personal information, and they certainly could not pet or date a Bunny. If a problem arose, Elle would tilt her head and smile to summon the room director. “The Bunny,” she informs coolly, “was always sweet as pie.”

Savvy and an acknowledged master of the Bunny dip, she steadily climbed the ranks during her 17 years at the club. “Hef’ set it up right. Playboy always promoted from within.” By the end of her run, she was the Mother Bunny, rearing 120 bunnies of her own. “When I was Bunny Mother,” Elle says, “I learned if you treat ‘em like ladies they’ll act like ladies. If you treat ‘em like whores, they’re going to act like whores. I treated all my girls like they are going to do the right thing.”

The feminist perspective only aggravates her. She says she and the girls were happy to be there. So happy, in fact, that she only took three short breaks, twice to bare two children by her first husband and the third, when the club closed down in 1974 for renovations.

But when it re-opened back in 1976, the the club, like the world, had changed. “Most of the girls from the original era were not hired back. . . . In the ‘60s it was glamorous. We were stars. In the ‘70s, we had a lot more girls going to college, it was more of a job. And the girls, you had to twist their arms to put makeup on…. Women’s lib supporters picketing in front of the club…. ” She stayed on until the club closed in 1986. By then, tourists had replaced the glitter.

Today, the world is as different as it is the same. Elle owns the bar where she sits, and her bunny costume is stowed neatly, tenderly in the back of her bedroom closet. It is late on a Sunday, fall afternoon at Elle’s Homesick Bar and Grill on West 79th Street, and the brunch crowd is breaking up as bar regulars arrive to saddle up for a drink. Rambling talk and laughs fill the air. Elle rises to work the floor. Everyone looks happy to be there.