All the color had gone out of Kenny’s bloated, florid face, leaving it pasty, yellow-white.
He said: “You sure?” He went unsteadily to a little table in the room, picked up an empty bottle, held it up to the light, threw it into a corner.
Shane nodded, said: “Pretty damned dumb for Del to get so steamed up about Lorain an’ Charley that he killed Charley — huh? Lorain’s been washed up with Charley for months — an’ Del ought to’ve known about it if anybody did...”
Kenny said: “He wasn’t worrying about Lorain. It was that little cigarette gal — Thelma, or Selma, or something — that works for Charley. Del’s been two-timing Lorain with her for the last couple weeks. That’s what he was shooting off his mouth about this afternoon — he had some kind of office on her an’ Charley.”
Kenny went to a dresser and opened a drawer and took out a bottle of whiskey.
Shane said: “Oh.”
He went out and down the dark stair, out to the bar. The glass of beer and the glass of water were on the bar where he had left them. He picked up the glass of water, tasted it, said: “That’s lousy,” and went out through the front door and the passageway to the cab.
It was a few minutes before eleven when Shane got out of the cab, paid off the driver and went into the Valmouth. The clerk gave him a note that a Mister Arthur had telephoned, would call again in the morning.
Shane went up to his rooms, sat down with his coat and hat on and picked up the telephone.
He said: “Listen, baby — tell the girl that relieves you in the morning that when Mister Arthur calls, I’m out of the city — won’t be back for a couple months. He wants to sell me some insurance.”