“A goddamn federal,” Frieda said. “I can spot them a mile away.”
“What’s he want with us?” Dora’s voice was wary.
“I’m wise to these federals,” Frieda declared in a loud voice. “They can’t put anything over on me. Hey, you,” she shouted at Kerrigan. “Whatever you got in mind, forget it. We ain’t bootleggers and we ain’t peddling dope. We’re honest, hard-working women and we go to church and we’re all paid up on our income taxes.”
“And another thing,” Dora cut in. “We’re not counterfeiters.”
“We’re decent citizens,” Frieda stated. Her voice climbed to a shrill blast. “You leave us alone, you hear?”
Kerrigan sighed and went back to his beer. He knew there was no use trying to prove his identity. He knew that Frieda and Dora were mixing their fear of the law with a certain pleasure, a feeling of importance. They visualized the United States government sending an agent to deal with two clever queens of vice. But they’d show him. They’d trip him up on every move he made.
He called to Dugan and said he was buying drinks for the ladies. They ordered double shots of gin and didn’t bother to thank him because they were in a hurry to get it down. And when it was down they forgot all about him; they gazed at the empty glasses and tried to drown themselves in the emptiness.
While Dugan hummed the squeaky tune, Kerrigan leaned low over the bar, not hearing it. He was gazing at the half-empty glass of beer and feeling the weight of the camera in his pocket.
Then the door opened and someone came into the taproom. The women looked around at the newcomer, who smiled a quietly amiable greeting and moved toward a table at the other side of the room. The hags made oaths without sound as they glowered at the delicately chiseled face of Newton Channing. He was wearing a clean white shirt and a light summer suit that was freshly pressed. As he seated himself at a table he lit a cigarette with a green enamel-cased lighter. It sent a pale green glow onto his thin, sensitive features and gave a greenish tint to his yellow hair.
The two hags went on looking at Newton Channing, their eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and absurdly futile envy.