He was a small man in his middle seventies. His head was bald except for three little bushes of white hair, one above each ear and one in the center. He smiled and showed a toothless mouth. He said, “The ring. You have the ring?”
Kerrigan shook his head. He looked at Loretta. Her face was calm and she was gazing past the old Greek and breathing quietly and not saying anything.
The Greek said, “I’ll find a ring somewhere.”
He beckoned them into the house. In the small and shabby parlor he switched on a lamp, then went into another room. Loretta sat down on a flimsy chair. Kerrigan stood in the middle of the floor, not looking at her. His legs felt heavy, as though weighted with lead.
A few minutes passed, and then the Greek came into the parlor carrying a bottle of ink and a pen and a large sheet of white paper rolled up, fastened with a rubber band. He took off the rubber band and put the paper in Kerrigan’s hand. Kerrigan stared at the scrolled border and the printed words that told him he was looking at a marriage license. He swallowed very hard, and then he walked to the chair in which Loretta was seated and he said, “You sign it first.”
Loretta looked at the Greek. “Is this paper a legitimate document?”
The old man nodded emphatically. “It comes from City Hall. My son works in the Marriage Bureau. Tomorrow he takes it back and puts it in the file.”
She said quietly, “I want to be sure this is legal.”
Kerrigan frowned. “Sure it’s legal,” he said. “Look at the printing on it.”
The Greek said, “Nothing to worry about. I make real marriages. For many years I do this work. Never any trouble.”