The Kerrigans occupied only the first floor; the two upper floors were rented out to other families, who were always bringing in more relatives. There was really no way to determine how many tenants were upstairs. From the noise they usually made, it sometimes seemed to Kerrigan that he was living underneath a zoo crammed to the limit with wild animals. But he knew he had no right to complain. The first floor did all right for itself when it came to making noise.
He opened the front door and walked into a dimly lit parlor that featured a torn carpet, several sagging chairs, and an ancient sofa with most of the stuffing falling out of the upholstery. His father, Tom, was sound asleep on the sofa, but he awakened and sat up when Kerrigan was halfway across the room.
Tom Kerrigan was fifty-three, an extremely good-looking man with a carefully combed pure-white pompadour, a tall and heavy and muscular body, and absolutely no ambition. At various times in his life he had shown considerable promise as an Irish tenor, a heavyweight wrestler, a politician and a salesman and a real-estate agent. He might have attained the heights in any of these fields, but he was definitely a loafer, and the more he loafed, the happier he appeared to be. As he sometimes put it, “It’s a short life and there ain’t no sense in knocking yourself out.”
Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Tom let out a tremendous yawn, and then he smiled amiably at his son. “Just coming in?”
Kerrigan nodded. “Sorry I woke you up.”
Tom shrugged. “I didn’t feel like sleeping anyway. This goddamn sofa was breaking my back.”
“What’s wrong with your bedroom?”
“Lola threw me out.”
“Again?”
Tom frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with that woman. She’s always been an evil-tempered hellcat, but lately she’s been carrying on something fierce. I swear, she tried to murder me tonight. Threw a table at me. If I hadn’t ducked, it would’ve knocked my brains out.”