They had all been drinking for hours, their expressions dulling as their faces gave in to gravity. The only light came from a couple of coal-oil lamps, inexpertly prepared, their sputtering wicks giving a shifting, shadowy life to the room. Four of them sat at a little fold-up picnic table playing poker: Bennet, nursing his cards like a brutal matron; Goldwin, his skein of hair as unraveled as he; Otto, simmering in his own bitterness; and Sal, who sat on an upturned bucket, his head so much lower than those of the other men he might have been mistaken for a child. Siggy lay slumped in the barber chair, his hands tender upon his swollen stomach. Just behind him, on the counter beside the sink, sat Finn, like a sad, sweet gargoyle. Magnus, who had a bad back, stood, leaning against the dark-paneled wall, his eyes on the crate of beer beside Siggy.

“What kind of dog is it?” Goldwin asked.

“What dog?” Otto said.

“The boogerman’s dog.”

“White dog.”

“What do you mean white?”

Siggy leaned up. “White as a miner’s fanny.”

“I know dogs.” Goldwin pointed at himself with pride.

“Get off this.” Bennet was getting impatient. “Who gives a rat’s ass what kind of dog?”

“I want to know.” Goldwin tapped his finger on the table as if this were a matter of honor. “What kind of dog?”

“Big dog,” Otto said.

“What kind of big dog?”

“Fucking”—Otto emphasized each word—“big…white…dog.”

“What was it doing there?”

Otto reached over and slapped Siggy’s knee with his cards. “What was it doing there, Sig?”

“Singing ‘Big Rock Candy Mountain’ with Harry McClintock,” Siggy said.

“Had a dog once,” Finn cut in. “Wasn’t a dog to be honest, it was a cat—kitten actually. And it wasn’t mine. Not white either. Black as coal. Died because it got a tin can stuck on its head. I found it. Poor little fella. Cat in the iron mask. Sure, isn’t that what you get when you’re poor and you want something bad? Blinds you, kills you, and there’s damn all in it anyway.” Puffing out his cheeks, Finn tipped his head up as if he were suddenly fascinated with the ceiling.

“You’re priceless, Finn.” Magnus slapped his hand against the wall in genuine appreciation, since the Irishman’s little outburst had given him the opportunity to pilfer another bottle of beer from Siggy’s stash. “How did Ireland ever let you go?”

“Left for love,” Bennet said. With Bennet’s attention now on him, Finn became the focus—if a little bleary—of all the men. “Tell ’em that story, Finn.”

Finn resisted. “Oh, they don’t want to—”

“Tell ’em.” Bennet spoke peremptorily. “What was her name—Katy?”