“Get the hell away,” Kerrigan muttered.
“We got a right to sit down,” Dora said. And then she recognized him. “Well, whaddya know? It’s Bill Kerrigan.”
“Damn if it ain’t,” Frieda shouted.
“And he’s all dressed up in his Sunday best,” Dora declared. She let out a high-pitched, jarring laugh. “We thought you was a federal.” She folded her arms and unfolded them and then folded them again. “Why the special outfit?”
“This here’s a special table,” Frieda said. She made a gesture to indicate Channing, who sat there relaxed and smiling dimly.
Dora had stopped laughing and her face was pleated with lines curving downward. “It may be special, but it ain’t reserved. If they can sit here, so can we.”
“You’re goddamn right,” Frieda said. She took the chair next to Channing. Then she shifted the chair so that the grimy fabrics covering her hip came up against the side of his clean jacket.
Dora sat down beside Kerrigan. She put her arm around his shoulder. He cursed without sound, took hold of her wrist, and pushed her arm away. But then her arm was there again. He said, “What the hell,” and let it stay there.
“Gonna buy us a drink?” Frieda asked Channing.
“Why, certainly,” Channing said. “What would you like?”