“No,” Ruttman said. “He won’t hire you. None of them’ll hire you.”
“Why not?” he asked, but he already knew the answer.
“You’re blackballed,” Ruttman said. “It’s going down the line already.”
Kerrigan stared down at the uncarpeted floor. He took another drag at the cigarette and it tasted sour.
He heard Ruttman saying, “I’d like to go to bat, but you won’t give me anything to work on.”
He went on staring at the floor. “The hell with it.”
Ruttman let out a huge sigh. “I guess it ain’t no use,” he said aloud to himself. Then, looking at Kerrigan, “Better stay here and rest a while. When you come out, I’ll have your pay check ready.”
The dock foreman walked out of the room. Kerrigan sat there on the edge of the sofa, feeling the dizziness coming again, starting to feel the full hurt of the big fists that had rammed his ribs and his belly and his face. Very slowly he pulled his legs onto the sofa and lay back. He closed his eyes and told himself to fade away for an hour or so.
Just then he heard a footstep, the rustle of a dress. He opened his eyes and saw Loretta Channing looking down at him.
She stood there at the side of the sofa, her hands holding the camera. She wasn’t aiming it, and he saw that her fingers were manipulating a lever and getting the camera open and taking out a small roll of film.