For some moments Kerrigan was silent. Then he said, “How was it in Alaska?”
“Very nice. Rather cold, but really very nice.”
Kerrigan’s hands were still flat on the table. He looked down at them. “You do these things often?”
“Now and then,” Channing said. “Depends on what mood I’m in.”
“I bet you have all kinds of moods.”
“Hundreds of them,” Channing admitted. He laughed without sound. “I ought to keep a filing cabinet. It’s hard to remember such a wide variety.”
Kerrigan closed his eyes and for a moment all he saw was black. And then something happened to the blackness and it became the dark alley and the dried bloodstains.
He could feel the trembling that began in his chest and went up to his brain and down to his chest again. His eyes were open now and he stared at his hands and saw that his knuckles were white. He said to himself, Cut it out, you’re not sure yet, you don’t have proof, you can’t do anything if you don’t have proof.
Just then something caused him to turn his head and he saw the two hags who stood at the bar. They were making hissing sounds and their eyes were focused on him and Channing. And then, somewhat hesitantly, they moved toward the table.
They approached the table with their faces sullen and belligerent and yet their twisted mouths seemed to be pleading for something. Frieda was trying to wriggle her shapeless hips and her hands made dainty adjustments to her orange hair. Dora swayed her bony shoulders and attempted to show the curves of a body that had no curves. As the two of them came closer, it was like a walking bag of flour and a walking broomstick.