There was a long silence. Kerrigan took a sip of beer, and then he said, “Where do you live?”
“Uptown,” Channing answered absently. And as he went on talking, it was obvious that his thoughts had nothing to do with what he was saying. “Nice clean neighborhood. Too goddamn clean. Strictly middle-class. House and garage and a lawn in front. I live there with my sister. Just the two of us. She’s a nice girl and we get along fairly well. One night last week she knocked me cold.”
Kerrigan didn’t say anything.
“She’s really a very nice girl,” Channing said. He lifted the glass to his mouth and finished the whisky. Then he got up from the table and went to the bar and came back with another beer and a pint bottle of whisky. Pouring the whisky, he went on in the detached tone, “I was trying to set fire to the house and she used the heel of her shoe on my head. I was out for at least ten minutes.”
“Well, there’s nothing like a happy home.”
Channing filled the water glass to the brim. He lifted the glass very carefully and drank the whisky as though he were drinking water. He consumed more than a third of the glass before he said, “You know, I admire my sister. I really do. Only thing I object to, she has some notion I can’t take care of myself. It makes her maternal. Lately she’s been coming here to pick me up and drive me home.”
“Can’t you make it alone?”
Channing shrugged. “Usually I’m too drunk to handle a car. When that happens, Dugan calls for a taxi. I don’t like to see my sister coming down here. I’d much rather go home in a taxi.”
“It’s a lot safer,” Kerrigan said. “I mean, it’s safer for your sister. After all, this is a rough neighborhood.”
“She doesn’t care about that.”