MacAlmon put down one hand and put it over her mouth, said: “Shut up.” MacAlmon was dead white.
Kells looked at the other man — the one he hadn’t seen before, the one with the woman in the orange dress. He, too, put his hands up, rather more rapidly than the others had.
Someone pounded on the door, a voice shouted: “What’s the matter in there?”
Kells looked at Rose. The automatic was rigid in his hand, focused squarely on Rose’s chest. Rose looked at the gun, swallowed.
MacAlmon said: “Nothing...”
Rose swallowed again. He smiled weakly, licked his lips. “We’re playing games.” There was laughter outside the door — a man’s laughter and a woman’s. The voice asked: “Post office?”
The woman in the orange dress giggled. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped down softly to the floor.
Ruth Perry pushed MacAlmon’s hand away, stood up. She swayed, stared drunkenly at Kells; she shook her head sharply and staggered forward, said: “Well, I’m a dirty name — ish Gerry — good ol’ son of a bitch, Gerry. Lesh have a drink.” She stooped over one of the tubs, almost fell.
Kells was standing with his back to the door. His face was bloody and blood dripped from his cut left hand. He took a handkerchief out of his overcoat, held it to his face.
He said: “We’ll take a walk, Jakie.”