“What’s the matter, Frank?”
“You see anything the matter?”
“Something’s on your mind.”
“Quit digging.” Frank spoke jerkily, as though he’d been running and was out of breath. “You been watching me lately as if you’re waiting for some kind of flash news. Every time I look at you, I see you watching me. I’m warning you to lay off.”
Kerrigan stood motionless. Frank was moving past him and out of the taproom. He heard a sound that was something like a rumbling roar and it became louder and then he realized it was the dense quiet and stillness that made all the noise. But gradually he was aware of another sound and he concentrated on it, the squeaky little tune that came humming from Dugan’s lips. He tried to stay with the music, tried to think of the words that went with the melody, but while his brain moved in that direction his eyes moved to the mirror that showed the man at the table on the other side of the room.
He turned away from the bar and walked slowly toward the table.
He sat down facing the yellow-haired man, who was still slumped over, head buried in folded arms. For almost a full minute he sat there looking at the man. Then he touched the man’s wrist and said, “Hey, Johnny, wake up.”
“Go away.” The man didn’t look up. He scarcely moved, except to draw back his wrist from Kerrigan’s hand.
“Come on, Johnny. Get with it.”
“Leave me alone,” the man said.