Blick, a heel

A Sailor

Ma, Nick’s mother

A Society Gentleman

A Society Lady

Killer, a streetwalker

Her Sidekick

The Drunkard

A Cop

The Newsboy

Another Cop

Anna, Nick’s daughter

Act One

Nick’s is an American place; a San Francisco waterfront honky-tonk.

At a table, Joe: always calm, always quiet, always thinking, always eager, always bored, always superior. His expensive clothes are casually and youthfully worn and give him an almost boyish appearance. He is thinking.

Behind the bar, Nick: a big red-headed young Italian-American with an enormous naked woman tattooed in red on the inside of his right arm. He is studying the Racing Form.

The Arab, at his place at the end of the bar. He is a lean old man with a rather ferocious old-country moustache, with the ends twisted up. Between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand is the Mohammedan tattoo indicating that he has been to Mecca. He is sipping a glass of beer.

It is about eleven thirty in the morning.

Sam is sweeping out. We see only his back. He disappears into the kitchen. The Sailor at the bar finishes his drink and leaves, moving thoughtfully, as though he were trying very hard to discover how to live.

The Newsboy comes in.

Newsboy (cheerfully) Good morning, everybody. (No answer. To Nick.) Paper, Mister?

Nick shakes his head, no. The Newsboy goes to Joe.

Newsboy Paper, Mister?

Joe shakes his head, no. The Newsboy walks away, counting papers.

Joe (noticing him) How many you got?

Newsboy Five.

Joe gives him a quarter, takes all the papers, glances at the headlines with irritation, throws them away. The Newsboy watches carefully, then goes.

Arab (picks up paper, looks at headlines, shakes head as if rejecting everything else a man might say about the world) No foundation. All the way down the line.

The Drunkard comes in. Walks to the telephone, looks for a nickel in the chute, sits down at Joe’s table. Nick takes the Drunkard out. The Drunkard returns.

Drunkard (champion of the Bill of Rights) This is a free country, ain’t it?

Willie, the marble-game maniac, explodes through the swinging doors and lifts the forefinger of his right hand comically, indicating one beer. He is a very young man, not more than twenty. He is wearing heavy shoes, a pair of old and dirty corduroys, a little green turtleneck jersey with a large letter ‘F’ on the chest, an oversize two-button tweed coat, and a green hat, with the brim up. Nick sets out a glass of beer for him, he drinks it, straightens up vigorously, saying ‘Aaah’, makes a solemn face, gives Nick a one-finger salute of adieu, and begins to leave, refreshed and restored in spirit. He walks by the marble game, halts suddenly, turns, studies the contraption, gestures as if to say, ‘Oh, no.’ Turns to go, stops, returns to the machine, studies it, takes a handful of small coins out of his pants’ pocket, lifts a nickel, indicates with a gesture, ‘One game, no more.’ Puts the nickel in the slot, pushes in the slide, making an interesting noise.