He stood there and told himself he was getting the answer. He knew it had no connection with any man’s face or any man’s name. His eyes were focused through the window facing Vernon Street. He peered out past the murky glass and saw the moonlight reflected on the jutting cobblestones. It was a yellow-green glow drifting across Vernon and forming pools of light in the gutter. He saw it glimmering on the rutted sidewalk and going on and on toward all the dark alleys where countless creatures of the night played hide-and-seek.
And no matter where the weaker ones were hiding, they’d never get away from the Vernon moon. It had them trapped. It had them doomed. Sooner or later they’d be mauled and battered and crushed. They’d learn the hard way that Vernon Street was no place for delicate bodies or timid souls. They were prey, that was all, they were destined for the maw of the ever hungry eater, the Vernon gutter.
He stared out at the moonlit street. Without sound he said, You did it to Catherine. You.
It was as though the street could hear. He sensed that it was making a jeering reply. A raucous voice seemed to say, So what? So whatcha gonna do about it?
He groped for an answer.
And the street went on jeering, saying, Your sister couldn’t take it, and the same goes for you. And it chose that moment to display its hole card. It opened the door of Dugan’s Den and showed him the golden-haired dream girl from uptown. As he stared at Loretta, he could hear the street saying, Well, here she is. She’s come to take your hand and lift you from the gutter.
Loretta was walking toward him. Something quivered in his brain and he thought, She reminds me of someone. And then it was there, the memory of the hopes he’d had for Catherine and himself, the hopes he’d lost in a dark alley and yearned to find again.
But taproom noises interfered. Two dimes clinked on the table as Dugan poured a drink for Frank. At the table Nick Andros poured gin for Dora. “Say when,” Nick said. But Dora said nothing, for gin had no connection with time. As the gin splashed over the edge of the glass, Kerrigan looked toward the table. He saw Frieda getting up from the floor. Mooney was doing the same, and they almost bumped heads as they came to their feet. Then Frieda staggered backward and bumped the humpbacked wino off his chair. Channing caught hold of Frieda and tried to steady her and she said, “Let go, goddamnit, I can stand on my own two legs.” There was a shout of approval from Dora. It inspired Frieda to a further statement of policy. She said to Channing, “Don’t put yer hands on me unless I tell you to.”
Channing shrugged, preferring to let it go at that. But Nick Andros frowned and expressed the male point of view, saying, “You’re wearing his engagement ring, he’s your fiance.” Frieda blinked, looked down at the ring on her finger, and then with some energetic twisting she pulled it off. For some moments she seemed reluctant to part with the green stone. She held the ring tightly, frowning at it. Then suddenly she placed the ring on the table in front of Channing. Her voice was quiet as she said, “Take it back to where you got it. This pussycat’s a self-supporting individual.”
For a moment Channing just sat there with nothing in his eyes as he thought it over. Then, with another shrug, he lowered the ring into his jacket pocket. So that took care of that, and then he was smiling at Frieda and saying, “Have a drink?”
Frieda nodded emphatically. She sat down beside him and watched him pour the gin. She lifted the glass and said loudly, “This juice is all I need from any man. Even if he wears clean shirts.” But then, as though using her right hand to make up for a left-handed swipe, she patted the side of Channing’s head and spoke in a softer tone. “Don’t take it to heart, sweetie. You’re really cute. It’s nice to sit here and drink with you. But that’s as far as we can take it. After all, it’s every cat to his own alley.”
So true, Kerrigan thought. He looked at Loretta, who stood there waiting for him to say something. His eyes aimed down to what she had on her finger, the hinged ring from the Greek’s loose-leaf notebook. His brain said, No dice. She’ll hafta take it off. And his heart ached as he gazed at her face. Her face told him that she knew what he was thinking and her own heart was aching.
He said, “I’ll have a talk with the Greek. He’ll get rid of the license. All he has to do is light a match.”
She didn’t say anything. She looked at the ring on her finger. She started to take it off and it wanted to stay there, as though it were a part of her that pleaded not to be torn away.
He said, “It’ll come off. Just loosen the hinge.”
Her eyes were wet. “If we could only—”
“But we can’t,” he said. “Don’t you see the way it is? We don’t ride the same track. I can’t live your kind of life and you can’t live mine. It ain’t anyone’s fault. It’s just the way the cards are stacked.”
She nodded slowly. And just then the ring came off. It dropped from her limp hand and rolled across the floor and went under the bar to vanish in the darkness of all lost dreams. He heard the final tinkling sound it made, a plaintive little sound that accompanied her voice saying good-by. Then there was the sound of his own footsteps walking out of Dugan’s Den.
As he came off the pavement to cross the Vernon cobblestones, his tread was heavy, coming down solidly on solid ground. He moved along with a deliberate stride that told each stone it was there to be stepped on, and he damn well knew how to walk this street, how to handle every bump and rut and hole in the gutter. He went past them all, and went up on the doorstep of the house where he lived. As he pushed open the door, it suddenly occurred to him that he was damned hungry.
In the parlor, Bella was lying face down on the sofa. He gave her a slap on her rump. “Get up,” he said. “Make me some supper.”