“Good, isn’t it?” Mr. Lapierre asked. “But it can knock you over. I wouldn’t have more than one—unless of course you want to get knocked over. Some do.”

Adam leaned his elbows on the table. He felt a garrulousness coming on him and he was frightened at the impulse. His voice did not sound like his voice, and his words amazed him.

“I don’t get up here much,” he said. “Do you know a place called Kate’s?”

“Jesus! That rum is better than I thought,” Mr. Lapierre said, and he went on sternly, “You live on a ranch?”

“Yes. Got a place near King City. My name’s Trask.”

“Glad to meet you. Married?”

“No. Not now.”

“Widower?”

“Yes.”

“You go to Jenny’s. Let Kate alone. That’s not good for you. Jenny’s is right next door. You go there and you’ll get everything you need.”

“Right next door?”

“Sure, you go east a block and a half and turn right. Anybody’ll tell you where the Line is.”

Adam’s tongue was getting thick. “What’s the matter with Kate’s?”

“You go to Jenny’s,” said Mr. Lapierre.

[3]

It was a dirty gusty evening. Castroville Street was deep in sticky mud, and Chinatown was so flooded that its inhabitants had laid planks across the narrow street that separated their hutches. The clouds against the evening sky were the gray of rats, and the air was not damp but dank. I guess the difference is that dampness comes down but dankness rises up out of rot and fermentation. The afternoon wind had dropped away and left the air raw and wounded. It was cold enough to shake out the curtains of rum in Adam’s head without restoring his timidity. He walked quickly down the unpaved sidewalks, his eyes on the ground to avoid stepping in puddles. The row was dimly lit by the warning lantern where the railroad crossed the street and by one small carbon-filamented globe that burned on the porch of Jenny’s.

Adam had his instructions. He counted two houses and nearly missed the third, so high and unbridled were the dark bushes in front of it. He looked in through the gateway at the dark porch, slowly opened the gate, and went up the overgrown path. In the half-darkness he could see the sagging dilapidated porch and the shaky steps.

The paint had long disappeared from the clapboard walls and no work had ever been done on the garden. If it had not been for the vein of light around the edges of the drawn shades he would have passed on, thinking the house deserted. The stair treads seemed to crumple under his weight and the porch planks squealed as he crossed them.

The front door opened, and he could see a dim figure holding the knob.

A soft voice said, “Won’t you come in?”

The reception room was dimly lighted by small globes set under rose-colored shades. Adam could feel a thick carpet under his feet. He could see the shine of polished furniture and the gleam of gold picture frames. He got a quick impression of richness and order.