"Sorry," he said, unsure. "Night." He moved toward the door.
"Remember that, Patrick," she flung at his back. Another upset woman. What was getting into everybody? He looked into the window of the Depresso. Sue and Jim weren't there. The Go player who had annoyed him on his first night in town was sitting on a stool in a corner, playing a banjo. The metallic beat followed him a short distance up Tinker Street, a sort of urban bluegrass. It was a relief to go quietly to bed with his book on mathematics.
The next morning it was pouring. Patrick trudged to the News Shop, where Parker declared a washout. Gino, as senior man, got to work on an inside job. Everyone else was off for the day. The group milled around, joking with a drunk who kept coming in and out, clapping people on the back, breathing beer fumes in their faces, and saying, "How ya doing, buddy? How ya doing? That good, huh? Ha, ha, ha."
"Good to see you, Billy. Good to see you."
"So who's this?" he asked, putting one arm around Wilson and the other around Patrick.
"Patrick, Billy. This is Patrick."
"Top o' the mornin', Patrick." Patrick found himself laughing along with him.
"By Jesus," he said, "top o' the mornin' to you, too." They were leaving. Billy escorted them to the open doorway.
"Quack," he said, propelling them down the steps into the rain.
"Quack is right," Patrick said. "See you, Willy." Habit took him along the street to Ann's where he hesitated and then went in. "Hi, Willow. Rained out!"