And as I sit here, thought Jimmy Herf, print itches like a rash inside me. I sit here pockmarked with print. He got to his feet. A little yellow dog was curled up asleep under the bench. The little yellow dog looked very happy. “What I need’s a good sleep,” Jimmy said aloud.
“What are you goin to do with it, Dutch, are you goin to hock it?”
“Francie I wouldnt take a million dollars for that little gun.”
“For Gawd’s sake dont start talkin about money, now.... Next thing some cop’ll see it on your hip and arrest you for the Sullivan law.”
“The cop who’s goin to arrest me’s not born yet.... Just you forget that stuff.”
Francie began to whimper. “But Dutch what are we goin to do, what are we goin to do?”
Dutch suddenly rammed the pistol into his pocket and jumped to his feet. He walked jerkily back and forth on the asphalt path. It was a foggy evening, raw; automobiles moving along the slushy road made an endless interweaving flicker of cobwebby light among the skeleton shrubberies.
“Jez you make me nervous with your whimperin an cryin.... Cant you shut up?” He sat down beside her sullenly again. “I thought I heard somebody movin in the bushes.... This goddam park’s full of plainclothes men.... There’s nowhere you can go in the whole crummy city without people watchin you.”
“I wouldnt mind it if I didnt feel so rotten. I cant eat anythin without throwin up an I’m so scared all the time the other girls’ll notice something.”