And here’s another silly question. The gun. How come he pulled that ass-backwards caper and handed the gun back to you and letcha walk out with it? But wait now, that sorta ties in with the card and the badge. He letcha walk out with the card and the badge. But the gun, it ain’t no police pistol. It’s Grogan’s gun, or to be more accurate it’s the gun that Grogan gave you. So what it amounts to, you’re sitting here with the badge that says you’re a policeman, the card that says you’re attached to the Night Squad, and the .38 that says you’re working for Walter Grogan.

“Let’s Keep This City Clean,” it said on the poster. And somebody took out a pencil and scribbled two words. You go along with them two words, you save yourself a lotta worry, a lotta complications. Because it’s them two words that simplify the issue, stating clearly and positively that we all come from the caves or the trees or maybe the bottom of the goddam ocean; and wherever we come from it’s them two words that put us where we are today and give us what we got today, like for instance meat for the table.

Don’t believe that, the badge said.

Corey grimaced, biting the corner of his mouth. He felt a twinge very high on his thigh near his groin. He closed the wallet and put it back in his pocket. Then he leaned back and his hand drifted toward the bulge where his polo shirt covered the .38. His hand touched the bulge and he smiled dimly. Some greed came into his eyes. He was thinking in terms of fifteen thousand dollars.

At Second and Addison the taxi pulled away and Corey walked into the Hangout. At the far end of the bar he found sufficient space to set his foot on the rail and get an elbow on the wood. The bartender looked at him. Corey nodded and the bartender served him a double gin. On either side of him some drinkers decided to call it a night; they moved off and he had that section all to himself. For some reason it was like being marooned.

And that’s as it should be, a soundless heckler remarked.

Corey nodded slowly, in dismal agreement. He was thinking about Leonard Ward Ferguson.

But actually it wasn’t your fault, he tried to veer away from the accusing finger. I mean, it wasn’t your fault directly, it was just some circumstances—

And who set up them circumstances? the heckler came in again.

But what I mean—

Don’t tell me nothing, the heckler cut in rudely. You ain’t got nothing to tell. You’re a wrong number from way back and the vote on that is unanimous.

Corey lowered his head and shut his eyes tightly.