1

At the edge of the alleyway facing Vernon Street, a gray cat waited for a large rat to emerge from its hiding place. The rat had scurried through a gap in the wall of the wooden shack, and the cat was inspecting all the narrow gaps and wondering how the rat had managed to squeeze itself in. In the sticky darkness of a July midnight the cat waited there for more than a half hour. As it walked away, it left its paw prints in the dried blood of a girl who had died here in the alley some seven months ago.

Some moments passed and it was quiet in the alley. Then there was a sound of a man’s footsteps coming slowly along Vernon Street. And presently the man entered the alley and stood motionless in the moonlight. He was looking down at the dried bloodstains.

The man’s name was William Kerrigan and he was the brother of the girl who had died here in the alley. He never liked to visit this place and it was more on the order of a habit he wished he could break. Lately he’d been coming here night after night. He wondered what made him do it. At times he had the feeling it was vaguely connected with guilt, as though in some indirect way he’d failed to prevent her death. But in more rational moments he knew that his sister had died simply because she wanted to die. The bloodstains were caused by a rusty blade that she’d used on her own throat.

At the time it had happened, he’d been flat on his back in a hospital ward. He was a stevedore, and on the docks a large crate had slipped off its mooring and hit him hard, breaking both his legs. During his third week in the hospital he was told of his sister’s suicide.

It was definitely a case of suicide but the circumstances were rather unusual and the authorities decided on a post-mortem examination. They discovered she’d been raped, and the assault had deprived her of virginity. They concluded that she couldn’t bear the shock, the shame, and in a fit of despair decided to take her own life.

There were no clues to indicate who had assaulted her. It was the kind of neighborhood where the number of suspects would be limitless. A few were hauled in, questioned, and released. And that was as far as it went.

Seven months ago, Kerrigan was thinking. He stood there looking down at the bloodstains. Attempts had been made to wash them away, and summer rains had thinned them a lot, but the dried red blotches were now a part of the alley paving, stains that couldn’t be erased. The moonlight poured on them and made them glisten.

Kerrigan lowered his head. He shut his eyes tightly. His mood was a mixture of sorrow and futile anger. He wondered if the anger would ever find its target. His eyes opened again and he saw the red stains and it was like seeing a permanent question mark.

He sighed heavily. He was a large man, with the accent more on width than on height. He had it mostly in the shoulders, and it amounted to a powerful build composed of hard muscle, two hundred pounds of it, standing five feet ten. His hair was black and thick and combed straight, and he had blue eyes and a nose that had been broken twice but was still in line with the rest of his face. On the left side of his forehead, slanting down toward his cheek, there was a deep jagged scar from an encounter on the docks when someone had used brass knuckles. On the other side, near the corner of his mouth, there was another ridge of healed flesh, from someone’s knife. The scars were not at all unique, just a couple of badges that signified he lived on Vernon Street and worked on the docks. Just a stevedore, thirty-five years old, standing here in the dark alley and thinking of a dead girl named Catherine.

He was saying to himself, She had the real quality, straight as they come, and it adds up to a goddamn pity, but you gotta give her credit for what she was, she was born and raised on this street of bums and gin hounds, winos and hopheads, and yet with all that filth around her, she managed to stay clean, through all the twenty-three years of her life.

He sighed and shook his head slowly and started out of the alley. Just then someone called his name and he turned and saw the torn and colorless polo shirt, the slacks that couldn’t be patched any more. He saw the sunken-cheeked cadaver, the living waste of time and effort that added up to the face and body of his younger brother.

He said, “Hello, Frank.”

“I been lookin’ for you.”

“For what?” But he already knew. One look at Frank’s face and he could tell. He could always tell.

Frank shrugged. “Cash.”

He was anxious to get rid of Frank. He said, “How much you need?”

“Fifty dollars.”

Kerrigan smiled wryly. “Make it fifty cents.”

Frank shrugged again. “All right. That oughta do it.” He accepted the silver coin, hefted it in his palm, then slipped it into his trouser pocket. He was twenty-nine. Most of his hair was white. His daily diet consisted largely of five-cent chocolate bars and slot-machine peanuts and as much alcohol as he could pour down his throat. He was fairly gifted at cards and dice and cue sticks, although he’d failed miserably as a purse-snatcher. They hadn’t sent him up for it, they’d merely hauled him into a back room at the station house and beat the daylights out of him, and after that he’d stayed away from petty theft. But he was nevertheless proud of his criminal record and he liked to talk about the big operations he’d handle someday, the important deals and transactions he’d manipulate and the territories he’d cover. A long time ago Kerrigan had given up hope that Frank would ever be anything but a booze hound and a corner bum.

“Got a spare weed?” Frank asked.

Kerrigan took out a pack of cigarettes. He gave one to Frank, put one in his own mouth, and struck a match.

He noticed that Frank was gazing past him, the watery eyes aiming down through the darkness of the alley. Frank’s expression was thoughtful, then probing, and finally Frank murmured, “You come here often?”

“Now and then.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Kerrigan shrugged. “I’m not sure. I wish I knew.”

Frank was quiet for some moments, then he said, “She was a good kid.”

Kerrigan nodded.

“One hell of a good kid,” Frank said. He took a long drag at the cigarette. He let the smoke come out, and then he added, “Too good for this world.”

Kerrigan’s smile was gentle. “You know it too?”

They were looking at each other. Frank’s face was expressionless. Then his lips twitched and he blinked several times. It seemed he was about to say something. He clamped his mouth tightly to hold it back. The cords of his throat moved spasmodically as he swallowed the unspoken words.

Kerrigan frowned slightly. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“You look nervous.”

“I’m always nervous,” Frank said.

“Loosen up,” Kerrigan suggested. “Nobody’s chasing you.”

Frank jerked the cigarette up to his mouth and took a quick draw and bit off some shreds of tobacco and spat them out. He looked off to one side. “Why should anybody chase me?”

“No reason at all,” Kerrigan said easily. But inside he felt himself stiffening a little. “That is, unless you’ve done something.”

Frank took a deep breath. He seemed to be staring at nothing. His lips scarcely moved as he said, “Like what?”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t keep tabs on you.”

“You sure you don’t?”

“Why should I? You’re old enough to look out for yourself.”

“I’m glad you know that,” Frank said. He straightened his shoulders, trying to look cold and hard. But his lips were twitching, and he went on blinking. He took another conclusive drag at the cigarette and said, “See you later.”

Kerrigan watched him as he walked away, crossing the cobbled surface of Vernon Street and heading toward the taproom on the corner of Third and Vernon. The name of the place was Dugan’s Den and it was the only dive in the neighborhood that sold legitimate liquor. All the other joints were in the back rooms of wooden shacks or in the cellars of tenements. Most of the alcohol sold along Vernon Street was homemade and the authorities had long ago given up trying to catch all the bootleggers. Every once in a while there’d be a raid, but it didn’t mean anything. They never kept them locked up for long. Just long enough to let them know that payoffs had to be made on time. So a few days later they’d be back in business at the same old stand.

He stood there at the edge of the alleyway and watched the scarecrow figure of his brother moving toward the murky windows of Dugan’s Den. When the fifty cents was used up, Frank would hang around Dugan’s and beg for drinks, or maybe he’d steal some loose change off the bar and make tracks for the nearest establishment where twenty cents would bring him a water glass filled with rotgut. But there was no point in worrying about Frank.

There was no point in even thinking about Frank. It was a damn shame about Frank, but then, it was a damn shame about a lot of people.

Approaching voices interrupted his thoughts. He looked up and saw the two men. He recognized Mooney, the sign painter. The other man was a construction laborer named Nick Andros. They came up smiling and saying hello, and he nodded amiably. They were men of his own age and he’d known them all his life.

“What’s doing?” Nick greeted him.

“Nothing special.”

“Looking for action?” Nick asked. He was short and very fat and had a beak of a nose. Totally bald, his polished skull shone in the glow from the street lamps and moonlight.

Kerrigan shook his head. “Just came out to get some air.”

“What air?” Mooney grumbled. “Thermometer says ninety-four. We might as well be in a blast furnace.”

“There’s a breeze coming from the river,” Kerrigan said.

“I’m glad you feel it,” Mooney said. “For supper I had a plate of ice. Just plain ice.”

“That only makes it worse,” Kerrigan said. “Try a lukewarm bath.”

“I’ll hafta try something,” Mooney said. “I can’t stand this goddamn weather.” He was a tall, solidly built man with sloping shoulders and a thick neck. His hair was carrot-colored and he had a lot of it and always kept it combed neatly, parted in the middle and slicked down. His skin was very pale, almost like the skin of an infant. Although he was thirty-six, there were no lines on his face, and his gray-green eyes were clear and bright, so that the only sign of his years was in his voice. He looked more or less like an overgrown boy. Actually he was a widely-traveled man who’d studied painting in Italy on a fellowship and had been hailed as an important discovery in the art circles of Europe. He’d come back to America to find that his water colors were acclaimed by the critics but ignored by the patrons. So he’d changed his style in an effort to make sales, and the critics roasted him and then forgot about him. Then everybody forgot about him. He returned to Vernon Street and started painting signs in order to eat. Sometimes when he was drunk he’d talk about his art career, and if he was terribly drunk he’d shout that he was planning another exhibition in the near future. But no matter how drunk he was, he never said nasty things about the critics and the collectors. He never said anything about them one way or another. His primary grudge was against the weather. He was always complaining about the weather.

Nick was laughing. “You shoulda seen him eating the ice. He has a big block of ice on a plate and he’s biting it like it’s meat or something. He musta et up about ten pounds of ice.”

“That’s bad for you,” Kerrigan told Mooney. “You’ll ruin your stomach, doing that.”

“My stomach can take anything,” Mooney said. “Anything at all. If I can chew it, I can eat it. Last week in Dugan’s I won three dollars on a bet.”

“Doing what?” Kerrigan asked.

“Eating wood.”

Nick nodded. “He actually did it. I was there and I saw him bite the edge off a table and chew it up. Then he swallowed it, the whole mouthful, and he collected three dollars off the slummer.”

“Slummer?”

“The playboy,” Nick said.

“What playboy?”

“The playboy from uptown,” Nick said. “Haven’t you seen him?”

Kerrigan shook his head.

“Sure,” Nick said. “You musta seen him. He always comes to Dugan’s.”

Kerrigan shrugged. “I hardly ever go in there, so I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, anyway, he’s one of them playboys who likes to go slumming. One night about a year ago he walked into Dugan’s and now he’s one of the regulars. Comes in two, three times a week and drinks himself into a coma. But some nights he only has a few and then he goes out looking for kicks.” Nick shook his head solemnly. “A queer proposition if I ever saw one. I’ve watched him, the way he looks at a woman. Like he ain’t satisfied, no matter how much he gets.”

“Maybe he ain’t getting anything,” Mooney commented.

“Maybe,” Nick conceded. “But on the other hand, I think he knows how to operate. I got that impression when I offered to get him fixed up. It was something he said when he turned me down.”

Kerrigan looked at Nick. “What did he say?”

“He claimed it does nothing for him when he has to pay for it. Paying for it takes away the excitement.”

“Maybe he has something there,” Mooney said.

“He makes a lot of sense, the way he explains himself,” Nick went on. “I asked him if he was married and he said no, he’d tried it a couple times and it always bored him. I guess it’s a kind of ulcer in the head that gives him loony ideas.”

“You think he’s really sick that way?” Kerrigan murmured.

“Well, I’m not an expert in that line.”

“The hell you’re not,” Mooney said.

Nick looked at Mooney. Then he turned again to Kerrigan and said, “I guess most of us are sick with it, one way or another. There ain’t a man alive who don’t have a problem now and then.”

“Not me,” Mooney said. “I don’t have any problem.”

“You got a big problem,” Nick told Mooney.

“How come? I got no worries. There’s nothing on my mind at all.”

“That’s your problem,” Nick said.

Kerrigan was gazing past them. He said, “I wonder why he comes to Vernon Street.”

“Hard to figure,” Nick said. “Lotta ways of looking at it. Maybe in his own league he don’t rate very high, so he rides down here where he don’t hafta look up to anybody.”

“Or maybe he just don’t like himself,” Mooney remarked.

“That’s an angle,” Nick agreed. Then he frowned thoughtfully. “What it amounts to, I guess, he’s probably safer down here.”

“Safer?” Kerrigan said.

“What I mean is, he knows he can pull certain stunts on Vernon that he couldn’t get away with uptown.”

“What kind of stunts?” Kerrigan asked quietly.

“Whatever he has in mind.” Nick shrugged. “Who knows what he’s gonna dream up? It’s a cinch there’s something wrong with him, otherwise he wouldn’t need this Vernon Street routine.”

Kerrigan turned his head slightly and looked into the darkness of the alley behind him.

Then he looked past the heads of Nick and Mooney and focused on Dugan’s Den.

He said, “I could use a cold drink.”

“I’m dry myself,” Nick said.

“Me, I’m dying from thirst,” Mooney moaned.

Kerrigan smiled dimly. “I got some loose change. It oughta buy us a few beers.”

The three of them started walking toward Dugan’s Den. As they crossed the street, Kerrigan turned his head again for a backward glance at the dark alley.

2

Dugan’s den was twice as old as its proprietor, who was past sixty. The place had never been renovated and it retained its original floor and chairs and tables and bar. All the paint and varnish had vanished long ago, but the ancient wood glimmered with a high polish from the rubbing of countless elbows. Yet, aside from the shiny surfaces of the tables and the bar, Dugan’s Den was drab and shabby. It was the kind of room where every timepiece seemed to run slower.

But few of the customers owned watches, and as for the clock on the wall, it wasn’t even running at all. At Dugan’s there was very little interest in time. They came here to forget about time. Most of them were very old men who had nothing to do and no place to go. And some were white-haired women with no teeth in their mouths and nothing in their heads except the fumes of cheap whisky. The specialty of the house was a double shot of fierce-smelling rye for twenty cents.

There was no jukebox and no television set, and the only entertainment came from Dugan himself. He was a skinny little man with only a few strands of hair on his head and he was always whistling or humming or singing off key. It was a habit he’d developed long ago to keep the place from becoming too quiet. Most of the drinkers were not talkers, and when they did talk it was generally a meaningless jumble of incoherencies that made Dugan wish he were in another line of business. Occasionally there was a loud argument, but it seldom grew to anything really interesting. And on the few occasions when they’d throw fists or bottles, Dugan never made a move to stop them. He led a very monotonous life and he could stand to see a little action now and then.

There were only a few patrons at the bar when Kerrigan came in with Nick and Mooney. Behind the bar, Dugan was dozing standing up, with his arms folded and his chin on his chest. Nick banged his fist on the bar and Dugan opened his eyes and Kerrigan ordered three bottles of beer.

“No bottles,” Dugan said. “Ran out of stock late this afternoon. This is a thirsty neighborhood today.”

“I’m a thirsty man tonight,” Mooney stated. “Let’s have it from the tap.”

Dugan filled three big glasses and Kerrigan put money on the bar. Behind the bar there was a dirty mirror and he looked in it and saw a man sitting at one of the tables against the wall on the other side of the room. The man had his head lowered to his folded arms on the table and he seemed to be sleeping. Kerrigan noticed that the man was neatly dressed.

“This beer is warm,” Mooney was saying.

“There’s a shortage of ice,” Dugan said.

“You’re always short of ice,” Mooney complained. “What good is beer if it ain’t cold?”

Dugan looked at Mooney. “Did you come in here to raise an issue?”

“I came in to cool off,” Mooney said loudly.

“Then cool off,” Dugan said. “Just relax and cool off.”

“Might as well be drinking hot soup,” Mooney grumbled. “It’s a damn shame when a man can’t get relief from the heat.”

Through the mirror Kerrigan was studying the huddled figure on the other side of the room. He saw that the man had yellow hair cut short, with some silver showing through the yellow. He told himself to stop looking at the man, and he went on looking at him.

“I’m suffocating,” Mooney was saying. “It’s a goddamn furnace in here. And this beer makes it worse. I feel like I’m melting away to nothing.”

A white-haired gin-drinker raised his head from the glass and looked at Mooney. “Why don’t you walk down to Wharf Street and jump in the river?”

Nick laughed. But Mooney looked thoughtful, and after a moment he said solemnly, “That ain’t a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.”

Mooney turned away from the bar and started out of the taproom. Nick went after him and pulled at his arm.

“Let go,” Mooney said. “I need relief from this heat and I’m gonna get it if I have to stay in the river all night.”

“It’s a cinch you’ll stay longer than that,” Nick said. “You know you can’t swim.”

“Well, I’ll float.” Mooney released his arm from Nick’s grasp. He continued toward the door. At the door he turned and looked at Nick and Kerrigan. “You coming with me?”

Nick sighed. “I better be there when you jump in. You’ll need someone to pull you out.” He went back to the bar and gulped the rest of his beer. Then he looked at Kerrigan. “You coming?”

Kerrigan wasn’t listening, and Nick repeated it, and then Nick saw that Kerrigan had his mind on something else. He saw what Kerrigan was looking at in the mirror. Nick’s face was expressionless as he watched Kerrigan staring at the mirror that showed the man at the table on the other side of the room. Mooney had already made an exit, and after some moments Nick went to the door and opened it and walked out.

Dugan was dozing again, his head down and his arms folded on his chest as he stood behind the bar and hummed a squeaky tune. The white-haired gin-drinker was gazing tenderly at the few drops remaining in the glass. The other drinkers were bent over the bar and looking at nothing in particular. Then the door of the men’s room opened and Frank came out and saw Kerrigan and walked toward him, saying, “What are you doing here?”

Kerrigan took his gaze away from the mirror. He looked at Frank.

“You never come to this place,” Frank said. The corner of his mouth went up and came down and went up again. “Why’d you come here tonight? You don’t hafta put any tracers on me. I know how to take care of myself. What’s your point, anyway? Were you worried how I’d spend your fifty cents?”

“I came here to drink a glass of beer,” Kerrigan said.

“Then why don’t you drink it?”

Kerrigan lifted the glass to his lips and took a long drink. He put the glass down and Frank was still standing there, breathing hard, the mouth still moving in up-and-down spasms. Frank’s eyes were shiny and he was having difficulty standing still.

“What’s the matter, Frank?”

“You see anything the matter?”

“Something’s on your mind.”

“Quit digging.” Frank spoke jerkily, as though he’d been running and was out of breath. “You been watching me lately as if you’re waiting for some kind of flash news. Every time I look at you, I see you watching me. I’m warning you to lay off.”

Kerrigan stood motionless. Frank was moving past him and out of the taproom. He heard a sound that was something like a rumbling roar and it became louder and then he realized it was the dense quiet and stillness that made all the noise. But gradually he was aware of another sound and he concentrated on it, the squeaky little tune that came humming from Dugan’s lips. He tried to stay with the music, tried to think of the words that went with the melody, but while his brain moved in that direction his eyes moved to the mirror that showed the man at the table on the other side of the room.

He turned away from the bar and walked slowly toward the table.

He sat down facing the yellow-haired man, who was still slumped over, head buried in folded arms. For almost a full minute he sat there looking at the man. Then he touched the man’s wrist and said, “Hey, Johnny, wake up.”

“Go away.” The man didn’t look up. He scarcely moved, except to draw back his wrist from Kerrigan’s hand.

“Come on, Johnny. Get with it.”

“Leave me alone,” the man said.

“Don’t you know your old friend Bill?”

The man lifted his head just a little, but his arms still covered his face. He spoke slowly, more distinctly now, measuring his words. “I’m not acquainted with anyone named Bill. And I don’t have any old friends.”

“But this is Bill Kerrigan. You remember Bill Kerrigan.”

“I don’t remember anybody,” the man said. “I don’t like to remember people. All the people I’ve known I’d rather forget.”

“Is it that bad?” Kerrigan wondered if he could really make contact with this man.

“It isn’t bad at all,” the man said. “It’s delightful. It’s positively delightful.”

“What’s delightful, Johnny?”

“The calendar,” the man said. “The calendar with the picture of the girl on it. She wore an ermine wrap and it was unbuttoned and she didn’t have anything on underneath. That’s what I was dreaming about when someone wakes me up and starts calling me Johnny. It so happens my name isn’t Johnny.”

“What was the name of the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The girl in the dream.”

“She didn’t have a name,” the man said. “None of them have names. They’re just a lot of telephone numbers. This one didn’t even have a telephone. I like them better when they don’t have telephones. And the ones I like best are the dead ones. The dead ones never come around to bother me, not even in dreams.”

“But you said it was delightful.”

“That’s why it bothers me,” the man said. “It gets too delightful. It gets so damned delightful that it becomes anguish. Maybe I owe you something for breaking up the dream. You want me to buy you a drink?”

“Sure.”

The man raised his head. He had a sallow complexion, and his features were fragile and sensitive. The shadows under his eyes were like a dark reflection of what he had in mind most of the time. He was of average height and weight and he looked to be in his early thirties.

He offered Kerrigan a weary smile. “What are you drinking?”

“I’ll have a beer, Johnny.”

The smile became dim and sort of sad. “You still think it’s Johnny?” He didn’t wait for a reply. He got up and went to the bar. Kerrigan watched him as he stood there talking quietly to Dugan. Then he was back at the table with the beer, and a water glass half filled with whisky for himself.

Kerrigan raised his glass. “Good luck, Johnny.”

“There’s no such thing,” the man said. “It’s all bad.” He grinned at the whisky. Then he took a big gulp of it. He had trouble getting it down and he tried to curse while he was coughing and began to choke. He put a stop to that with another gulp. While it went down he had his eyes shut tightly. Then he was grinning again and he said, “You’re lonesome too, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes,” Kerrigan said.

“I’m lonesome all the time.” The man stopped grinning and gazed at the whisky in the glass. “I’ve been everywhere, I’ve done everything, and I’ve known everybody. And what it amounts to, I’m lonesome.”

“Maybe you need a woman,” Kerrigan ventured.

The man didn’t even seem to hear it.

Then it was quiet for some moments and finally the man grinned again and said, “Who are you?”

Kerrigan decided to play it straight. He said, “I’m sorry, mister. I knew I’d never seen you before. It’s just that I wanted company. I’m Bill Kerrigan.”

“And I’m Newton Channing. Ever hear of Newton Channing? Does the name mean anything?”

Kerrigan shook his head.

Channing said, “You know, it means nothing to me, either.”

There was a long silence. Kerrigan took a sip of beer, and then he said, “Where do you live?”

“Uptown,” Channing answered absently. And as he went on talking, it was obvious that his thoughts had nothing to do with what he was saying. “Nice clean neighborhood. Too goddamn clean. Strictly middle-class. House and garage and a lawn in front. I live there with my sister. Just the two of us. She’s a nice girl and we get along fairly well. One night last week she knocked me cold.”

Kerrigan didn’t say anything.

“She’s really a very nice girl,” Channing said. He lifted the glass to his mouth and finished the whisky. Then he got up from the table and went to the bar and came back with another beer and a pint bottle of whisky. Pouring the whisky, he went on in the detached tone, “I was trying to set fire to the house and she used the heel of her shoe on my head. I was out for at least ten minutes.”

“Well, there’s nothing like a happy home.”

Channing filled the water glass to the brim. He lifted the glass very carefully and drank the whisky as though he were drinking water. He consumed more than a third of the glass before he said, “You know, I admire my sister. I really do. Only thing I object to, she has some notion I can’t take care of myself. It makes her maternal. Lately she’s been coming here to pick me up and drive me home.”

“Can’t you make it alone?”

Channing shrugged. “Usually I’m too drunk to handle a car. When that happens, Dugan calls for a taxi. I don’t like to see my sister coming down here. I’d much rather go home in a taxi.”

“It’s a lot safer,” Kerrigan said. “I mean, it’s safer for your sister. After all, this is a rough neighborhood.”

“She doesn’t care about that.”

“The point is,” Kerrigan said, “it’s a very rough neighborhood and it’s especially bad for a woman.”

Channing inclined his head and gave Kerrigan a side glance. “Maybe you’re just sitting here and pulling my leg.”

Kerrigan didn’t reply.

“Something bothers you,” Channing said. “You’re not chatting with me just to pass the time.” He leaned forward, and his gaze was intent. “What’s really on your mind?”

“Nothing special,” Kerrigan said.

Channing drank more whisky. He kept the glass in his hand and stared at it. “Maybe you’re a mugger. Maybe you’re building up to some clever dodge. Like getting me alone somewhere and knocking my...