“Go on, sit beside him. Take hold of his hand.”
“Will you shut your mouth?”
Channing was laughing. “Prove it to him, let him know you’re on the level. Maybe you’ll convince him if you drink from his glass.”
“Maybe I’ll slap your face,” she told Channing. “You’re not too drunk to get your face slapped.”
Channing went on laughing. It was almost soundless laughter and gradually it subsided and became a series of little gasps, more like sobs. He made a grab for the glass and tossed more whisky down his throat. Then he turned so that he faced the wall. He sat there drinking and staring at the wall as though he were in a room alone with himself.
She was looking at Kerrigan, waiting for him to tell her his name.
He swallowed hard. “My name is Kerrigan.” He said it through his teeth. “William Kerrigan. I live right here on Vernon Street. The address is Five-twenty-seven.”
Then he got up from the table, and he was facing her and standing close to her. There was a heaviness on his chest and it caused him to breathe hard.
He said, “Got it straight? It’s five-twenty-seven Vernon.” He was trying to say it calmly and softly, with velvety sarcasm, but his voice trembled. “You’re welcome to visit there any time. Come over some night for dinner.”
She winced and took a backward step. He moved past her and headed for the door and walked out.