Kerrigan laughed.
“What’s funny?” Channing asked. His voice was very soft.
Kerrigan moved to the other side of the table and sat down. Channing had pushed the glass of whisky aside and was leaning forward and frowning puzzledly, his eyes still on the camera.
Kerrigan drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He said, “You better have a talk with your sister. Tell her she was very lucky this time. Maybe next time she won’t be so lucky.”
Channing looked at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Can’t you add it up?”
Channing shook his head. His eyes were blank.
“She made a play for me,” Kerrigan said. He leaned back in the chair and waited for Channing’s reaction.
But there was no reaction, except that the puzzlement faded just a little. And then Channing shrugged. He reached out for the water glass filled with whisky, lifted it to his mouth, and took a long drink. Then he put the cigarette to his lips and pulled at it easily. The smoke came out of his nose and mouth like the smoke from an incense burner, thin columns climbing lazily.
Kerrigan could feel himself stiffening. He tried to loosen up, but his eyes were getting hard and his voice sounded tight and strained. “Didn’t you hear what I said? She made a play for me.”