He was saying to himself, She had the real quality, straight as they come, and it adds up to a goddamn pity, but you gotta give her credit for what she was, she was born and raised on this street of bums and gin hounds, winos and hopheads, and yet with all that filth around her, she managed to stay clean, through all the twenty-three years of her life.
He sighed and shook his head slowly and started out of the alley. Just then someone called his name and he turned and saw the torn and colorless polo shirt, the slacks that couldn’t be patched any more. He saw the sunken-cheeked cadaver, the living waste of time and effort that added up to the face and body of his younger brother.
He said, “Hello, Frank.”
“I been lookin’ for you.”
“For what?” But he already knew. One look at Frank’s face and he could tell. He could always tell.
Frank shrugged. “Cash.”
He was anxious to get rid of Frank. He said, “How much you need?”
“Fifty dollars.”
Kerrigan smiled wryly. “Make it fifty cents.”
Frank shrugged again. “All right. That oughta do it.” He accepted the silver coin, hefted it in his palm, then slipped it into his trouser pocket. He was twenty-nine. Most of his hair was white. His daily diet consisted largely of five-cent chocolate bars and slot-machine peanuts and as much alcohol as he could pour down his throat. He was fairly gifted at cards and dice and cue sticks, although he’d failed miserably as a purse-snatcher. They hadn’t sent him up for it, they’d merely hauled him into a back room at the station house and beat the daylights out of him, and after that he’d stayed away from petty theft. But he was nevertheless proud of his criminal record and he liked to talk about the big operations he’d handle someday, the important deals and transactions he’d manipulate and the territories he’d cover. A long time ago Kerrigan had given up hope that Frank would ever be anything but a booze hound and a corner bum.