At Three A.M. In a deserted alley on Franklin Street the garbage cans play the opening bars of the Hallelujah Chorus; after a moment, a tom cat emerges protesting his innocence. At the corner of Elm Street and Third, the all-night pharmacy's blue light shines; inside, the druggist catnaps keeping a hand on the .38 special hidden below the counter. Inside St. Elizabeth's Hospital, the backlog has finally dwindled, not an ambulance in sight; the exhausted resident sneaks into a back room to catch some zees. Just off Main Street the cop has parked his squad car, turns off his lights to become a smaller target, his radio broadcasting only static; he opens his thermos, slowly empties the contents. The third shift goes on lunch break down at the UPS packing center, unshaven men wondering why they are eating lunch at three a.m. Jack and his Jill stagger from O'Malley's Bar heading for the Midtown Hotel each, perhaps, fearing what the other will look like in the morning but, in any event, they'll have a chance to sleep it off.