“He don’t even hear ya,” the shapeless hag said. “He’s all dressed up to go somewhere and he don’t even hear ya.”
“Hey, stupid,” the scarred woman hollered. “You goin’ to a party? Take us with you.”
“Yeah. We’re all dressed up, too.”
Kerrigan looked at them. He saw the rags they wore, the cracked leather and broken heels of their shoes. Then he looked at their faces and he recognized them. The shapeless woman with orange hair was named Frieda and she lived in a shack a few doors away from the Kerrigan house. The scarred woman was the widow of a ditchdigger and her name was Dora. Both women were in their early forties and he’d known them since his childhood.
“Hello, Frieda,” he said. “Hello, Dora.”
They stiffened and stared at him.
“Don’t you know me?” he said.
Without moving from where they stood at the other end of the bar, they leaned forward to get a better look at him.
“I know what he is,” Frieda said. “He’s a federal.”
Dora slanted her head and looked Kerrigan up and down and then she nodded slowly.