Carp sighed again. He turned away and started toward the door. Corey stood there frowning, then darted toward the little man and took hold of his arm and spoke in a whisper through tightened teeth, “Let’s check this once, just to get it straight. You see anything last night? You hear any noise that gotcha outta bed and made you look out the window?”

“Not that I can recall,” Carp said.

“That’s good,” Corey hissed softly. “Keep it that way.”

“You needn’t worry,” the little man said. His voice was toneless, yet a certain dignity was on the edge of it. The unspoken message came across: it isn’t because you scare me; nothing scares me, really. I can’t even feel your grip on my arm. All I can feel is pity for your troubled soul. You must be very deeply troubled. You can’t believe that anyone would extend a helping hand for no purpose other than trying to help. Well anyway, I tried.

Corey released the little man’s arm. For a moment they stood looking at each other. Then Carp said, “Thank you for the luncheon, it was most enjoyable,” turned away and walked out of the diner.

***

About fifteen minutes later, Corey entered the seething, sweating mass of Saturday afternoon drinkers at the Hangout. He looked for an empty spot at the bar, but knew there was no use looking. It was the same at the tables, and the standees were packed in close, jostling the sitters. He heard Nellie cursing. Then came a sound like a .38 as her open palm connected with the face of someone who talked long and talked wrong. Turning to look, Corey saw the man sailing away from the bar, leaving a space open at the bar rail. Corey moved fast, put a foot on the bar rail and an elbow on the bar, and ordered a double gin.

The gin came; he put it away in one fast gulp and ordered another. There were times when he drank slowly and chased the gin with water. But this ain’t one of them times, he told himself, downing the second gin and ordering a third. This is a time for heavy thinking, which means, of course, heavy drinking. And I got the notion it’s gonna take a lotta gin to set your mind straight.

Or maybe that ain’t what you want at all. What I mean is, if you really wanna concentrate, you wouldn’t be needing the gin. Might as well say it like it is. It’s actually the other way around; it’s the gin that keeps you from thinking and that’s the only reason you’re drinking. What it all amounts to, things are piling up on you all of a sudden and you wanna get that load off your brain; wash it away; flood it out with alcohol.