“Cassidy,” she said, “you're blind drunk and you better get out of here before you start a riot.”

  “He'll be all right,” Kenrick said.

  “He's blind, stinking drunk,” Mildred said. “He's a mess.”

  “Sure I am.” It crashed as it came from Cassidy's lips. “A good-for-nothing drunken bum. Not good enough for you. Don't make enough money. Can't buy you things you want. You know I'll never be anything more than what I am. You figure you can get something better. Like this here,” and he indicated Haney Kenrick.

  Kenrick's eyes probed Cassidy's drunkenness. It occurred to Kenrick that Cassidy was really quite drunk and might not be too much trouble. Kenrick also sensed that a ripe opportunity was presenting itself. He saw a means of increasing his stature in Mildred's eyes.

  Kenrick said, “Go home, Jim. Go home and sleep.”

  Cassidy laughed. “If I go home, where will you go with her?”

  “Don't worry about that,” Kenrick said.

  “You can be goddamn sure I won't worry.” Cassidy stood up. “I won't give it a thought. Why should I? What do I care what she does? You think I'm sore because you put your hands on her today? I ain't sore about that at all. To me it don't matter. I tell you it don't matter.”

  “All right,” Mildred said. “You're telling us it don't matter. Now what else?”

  “Let's leave it alone,” Kenrick said. “He'll be all right. He'll behave himself and he'll go home.” Kenrick stood up and took Cassidy's arm in a strong grip and started to lead him away from the table. Cassidy pulled away, lost his balance, bumped into another table and fell to the floor. Kenrick reached down, pulled him upright, and continued leading him toward the door. Once again he jerked away from Kenrick's grasp.

  “Now, be nice, Jim.”

  Cassidy blinked, gazed past Kenrick and saw Mildred moving toward the table where Shealy and the others sat. He saw Mildred reaching out to grab Pauline's wrist.

  He heard Mildred saying, “All right, troublemaker. You're not happy unless you have your mouth open. Now I'll close it for you.”

  Mildred yanked Pauline to her feet and smacked her hard across the face. Pauline cursed and snatched at Mildred's hair, and Mildred launched another smack that sent Pauline against the wall, to bounce away and run into another smack across the mouth. Pauline screeched like a wild bird and flew at Mildred and Shealy was trying to move in between them. Kenrick had turned and was watching it, and as Shealy attempted to separate the women, Kenrick commanded, “Stay out of it, Shealy.”

  Shealy ignored the command. Kenrick took a few steps toward Shealy and at that point Cassidy said, “Turn around, Haney. Look at me. You had your fun with Shealy this afternoon. Tonight you'll have it with me.”

  There was a cold precision and finality in Cassidy's tone, and it caused everyone in the room to stare at Cassidy. The combat between Mildred and Pauline had ended with Pauline sobbing on the floor. Spann was ignoring Pauline and watching Cassidy and waiting to see what Cassidy meant to do. They were all wondering what Cassidy was going to do.

  Kenrick looked worried. It seemed that Cassidy had somehow sobered himself. Kenrick didn't like the way Cassidy stood there, legs straight and firmly planted, arms swimming just a little, with the hands clenched so that the knuckles were chunks of stone.

  Cassidy said, “You're a slob, Haney. You're a cheap slob.”

  “Now, Jim, we don't want no trouble.”

  “I do.”

  “Not with me, Jim. You got no legitimate complaint against me.”

  Cassidy smiled just a little. “Let's just say I don't like you. And tonight I especially don't like you. It bothers me to know you gave Shealy a slamming around. Shealy's my friend.”

  Mildred came moving in. She stood with her face close to Cassidy's face and said, “It ain't because of Shealy and you know it. You're jealous, that's all. You're just plain jealous.”

  “Of you?” Cassidy said. “That's a laugh.”

  “Is it?” she challenged. “Then let's see you laugh.”

  Instead of laughing he shoved his flat palm into her face and pushed hard and Mildred went staggering back, lost her balance and hit the floor. She landed with a loud bump, sat there showing her teeth and hissing as she said, “All right, Haney. Get him for that. Don't let him do that to me.”

  Kenrick's face assumed a trapped expression. But he was deadly serious in his want for Mildred, and it had grown to such proportions that it far exceeded anything else in his mind. He knew he had to have Mildred and this might be the way to win her. Kenrick pulled the weight of his paunch up into his chest and moved toward Cassidy and swung with all his strength.

  Cassidy wasn't fast enough. It was a roundhouse right hand and it caught him full on the jaw. He went flying back and collided with a table and was bent back over it as Kenrick came at him again. Kenrick grabbed his legs and heaved him across the top of the table, then circled the table to kick him in the ribs and aim another kick. Cassidy rolled away, leaped up and tried to defend himself and couldn't do it. Kenrick smashed his mouth with a straight left, then blasted another left to the nose, and a right to the head. And Cassidy went down again.

  It was a fine, delicious moment for Kenrick. He was certain he had finished Cassidy, and he started to turn away. But from the corner of his eye he saw Cassidy getting up.

  “Don't be foolish, Jim,” he said. “You'll wind up in an ambulance.”

  Cassidy collected spit and blood between his teeth and spat it in Kenrick's face. He came lunging at Kenrick, speared Kenrick with a straight left to the mouth, followed with a right that hit Kenrick on the temple. Kenrick clutched at him, grabbed him, got both arms around his middle and squeezed, and they went to the floor. They rolled across the floor, Kenrick increasing his advantage with all the power in his heavy arms, squeezing the air from Cassidy, squeezing and squeezing until Cassidy's pain was dark gray and then thick black and it felt like it was the end of everything.

  Kenrick smiled at him and said, “You done?”

  Cassidy began a nod that couldn't be completed because his head butted against Kenrick's chin. Kenrick let out a noise that mixed a groan with a sigh, and the arms fell away from Cassidy's middle. And Cassidy was up, saw Kenrick getting up, and allowed Kenrick to walk into a straight left to the eye. It set Kenrick, it straightened him, and Cassidy threw a booming overhand right that came down like a sledge hammer against Kenrick's jaw.

  Kenrick sailed back and landed flat. His eyes were closed and he was unconscious. Cassidy looked at him, took another look to make sure, grinned down at him, then cruised gently into a soft white mist and fell on top of him.

  4

  They were splashing water in Cassidy's face. They had him in one of the unfurnished rooms above the bar. As he opened his eyes he saw them peering at him anxiously. He grinned and tried to sit up. Shealy told him to take it easy. He said he wanted a drink and Spann handed him a bottle. He took a long drink. In the midst of it, he saw Mildred. He looked straight at her as he finished the drink. Then he pulled himself up from the floor and moved toward Mildred.

  He said, “You get the hell out of here.”

  “I'm taking you home.”

  “Home?” He spoke in low tones. “Who said I had a home?”

  “Come on,” she said, and she reached to take his arm. “Let's go.”

  He pushed her hand away. “Keep away from me. I mean it.”

  “All right,” she said. “Any way you want it.”

  She turned and walked out, and he heard Shealy saying, “That was wrong, Cassidy. That wasn't fair.”

  He looked at Shealy. “You're not in it.”

  “I'm just saying it wasn't fair. She tried to meet you halfway.”

  “Tell me about it next week.” He turned away from Shealy and put a finger to his mouth and it came away bloody. He was starting to feel the pain of his bruises. To no one in particular he said, “Where's my friend Haney?”

  Spann laughed lightly. “They took him to a doctor.”

  Cassidy felt the side of his jaw. “You know,” he said, “that fat bastard put up a good fight.”

  They went downstairs to the bar. Cassidy said he could stand another drink.

  Shealy shook his head. “I think you better call it a night. We'll take you home.”

  “I said I wasn't going home.” He gestured to Lundy and the old man stared at him, looked past him at Shealy, who went on shaking his head. Cassidy turned and looked at Shealy and said, “Who made you my uncle?”

  “I'm just your friend.”

  “Then do me a favor,” Cassidy said. “Get out of my hair.”

  “It's a pity,” Shealy said.

  “What's a pity?”

  “You're blindfolded,” Shealy said. “You're just not able to see.”

  Cassidy waved wearily and turned his back to the white-haired man. Behind the bar Lundy was pouring a drink for Cassidy. It made no difference to Lundy that Cassidy had raised hell in his place tonight. They were always raising hell in Lundy's Place. Fights and near riots were part of the trade, and Lundy's refusal to interfere was one of the traits that made him especially popular along the water front. Another trait that made him popular was his willingness to serve them drinks long after they were loaded with it. He even had a back room reserved for after-curfew drinking. Now, as he served Cassidy, all he wanted from Cassidy was thirty cents for the shot of rye.

  Cassidy had three drinks and decided to buy drinks for everyone. As he turned to invite the house to drink with him, he saw that they had all gone except a single customer who sat in a far corner of the room.

  She sat there with an empty glass in front of her. She was looking at the glass as though it were the page of a book and she were reading a story. Cassidy moved toward her, trying to remember her name. Dorothy, or something. Or Dora. He wondered if he was too drunk to talk to her.

  He stood weaving, looking at the center of the table, which seemed to spin. “I can't remember your name.”

  “Doris.”

  “Yeah, that's right.”

  “Sit down,” she said, smiling kindly but impersonally.

  “If I sit, I'll fall asleep.”

  “You look tired,” Doris said.

  “I'm drunk.”

  “So am I.”

  Cassidy frowned at her. “You don't look drunk.”

  “I'm very drunk. I always know when I'm very drunk.”

  “That's bad,” Cassidy said. “That means you're a bad case.”

  Doris nodded. “Yes, I'm a very sick person. They tell me I'm drinking myself to death.”

  Cassidy reached for a chair, knocked it over, had trouble getting it upright, and finally planted himself in it. “I never seen you here before,” he said. “Where you from?”

  “Nebraska.” She slowly raised her hand and pointed a finger at him. “You've had an accident. Your face is all cut up.”

  “Well, for Christ's sake. Where were you? Didn't you see what happened?”

  “I heard some excitement,” Doris said.

  “Didn't you see it? Didn't you see the fight?”

  She lowered her head and looked at the empty glass. Cassidy stared at her.

  After long moments of quiet he said, “I don't know how to figure you.”

  Doris smiled sadly. “I'm easy to figure. I'm just a sick person, that's all. The only thing I want to do is drink.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  Cassidy tried to fold his arms across his chest, but couldn't get them adjusted. He let them fall to the sides of the chair. He leaned forward a little and said, “You're very young, you know that? You're just a girl. A tiny girl. I bet you don't weigh no more than ninety.”

  “Ninety-five.”

  “There,” he said, trying to think of what he was saying, trying to drill his way through the wall of his drunkenness. “You're young and you're little and it's a shame.”

  “What's a shame?”

  “Drinking. You shouldn't drink like that.” He raised his hand slowly and tried to form it into a fist so he could hit it on the table. His hand fell limply against the table and he said, “You want a drink?”

  Doris nodded.

  Cassidy searched the room for Lundy but the barman was not in sight. He figured Lundy was in the back room and he got up from the table, called Lundy's name, took a few steps and fell on his knees.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he said. “I feel rotten.”

  He felt her hands on his arms, knew she was trying to lift him from the floor. He tried to help her but his knees gave way again and she fell with him. They sat there on the floor and looked at each other. She reached out and took his hand and used him as a support to pick herself up from the floor. Then she tried to lift him and now, very slowly, they made it, rising like battered, choked animals, dazed in a forest of smoke. His arm was flung over her shoulder and she was bent under his weight as they moved across the room toward the door leading to the street.

  They came out on the street in the quiet and dark of half-past two in the morning, with a mist flowing toward them from the river. There were lights and noises on some of the piers, and there was some activity with barges out in the middle of the river. On the river side of Dock Street a policeman looked at them, frowned at them, took a few steps toward them, and then decided they were just a couple of drunks and the hell with them.

  The pavement ended and they advanced across the cobblestones with a seriousness that made each forward step a problem to be studied, to be handled carefully and very slowly. It was extremely important that they stay on their feet, that they hold onto consciousness and make their way across the street. To them it had the same importance as a salmon's fight for the upstream haven. The same importance as the grim journey of an injured panther seeking water. Their bodies, poisoned and weakened with alcohol, were chunks of animal substance devoid of thought and emotion and moving, moving, merely trying to survive a horrible voyage from one side of the street to the other.

  In the middle of the street they fell again and Cassidy managed to grab her before her head hit the cobblestones. Some light from a street lamp drifted onto her face and he saw that she was expressionless. The look in her eyes was the lost dead look far beyond caring, beyond the inclination to care.

  He struggled with her, and again they were on their feet. They moved in a path that had no direction, moving off to the side, then back again, circling and retreating and advancing and finally arriving at the other side of the street and leaning heavily against the street lamp.

  As they rested there the damp air coming from the river revived them a little and they were able to look at each other with recognition.

  “What I need,” Cassidy said, “is just one more drink.”

  The dead look left her eyes. “Let's buy a drink.”

  “We'll go back to Lundy's,” he said, “and we'll have another drink.”

  But then suddenly she shivered and he felt the tender frail body quivering against him, sensed the frenzy of her attempt to keep from falling once more. He held her upright and said, “I'm with you, Doris. It's all right.”

  “Guess I'll go home. Should I go home?”

  He nodded. “I'll take you home.”

  “Can't—” she began.

  “Can't what?”

  “Can't remember the address.”

  “Try to remember. If we hang around here, they'll come with the wagon and we'll end up in the jug.”

  Doris gazed at the glowing cobblestones under the street lamp. She lowered her head and put her hand to her brow. After a while she was able to remember her address.

  Toward five in the morning a storm came in from the northeast, a hammering of wind and rain that attacked all of the city and seemed to center its fury on the water front. The river swirled and cut itself apart and shot vicious waves at the piers, some of the waves breaking over the lower piers and sending platoons of foam halfway across Dock Street. The cascade of rain was a blinding onslaught, like billions of rivets coming down. In the stalls along Dock Street and Front Street and in the truck terminals farther up along Delaware Avenue they stopped all activity and ran for shelter and knew there'd be no work today.

  The crash of rain awakened Cassidy and he sat up and instantly realized he had been sleeping on a floor. He wondered what he was doing on the floor. Then he decided it didn't matter where he was, because he couldn't possibly feel any worse. His head felt as though someone who didn't like him had inserted tubes through his eyeballs and into his brain and sent hot metal through the tubes. His stomach seemed to have fallen to his knees. Every nerve cell in his body had a separate kind of agony. He told himself he was certainly a sad case. He rolled over on his side and went back to sleep.

  Around half-past ten he woke again and heard the rain. It was quite dark in the room and yet there was enough light for him to see his surroundings. He rubbed his eyes and wondered what in God's name he was doing in a room he had never seen before. Then, as he lifted himself from the floor, he saw Doris sleeping in the bed. And he remembered how she had passed out on one of the side streets, how he had carried her here, put her in the bed, and then passed out himself.

  He took another look at the room. It was very small and shabby, but it smelled clean and there was a door that gave way to a bathroom and another door leading into a tiny kitchen. He decided what he needed first was the bathroom. When he came out he felt a little better. There was a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches on the dresser and he helped himself to a smoke and walked into the kitchen, thinking of hot coffee.

  There was a clock in the kitchen and as he looked at the dial he let out a groan, knowing it was too late to report for work. But then he realized it was Sunday. Not only that, it was storming outside to such an extent that the streets and roads were in no condition for driving. He looked out the kitchen window and it was like gazing through the porthole of a submerged ship. The sound of the rain was a cannonade aiming in all directions and he told himself it was a fine day to be inside.

  At the kitchen table he sat placidly, enjoying the cigarette, waiting for the coffee to boil. He noticed some books on a shelf near the stove, and he got up and took a look at the titles. As he read the titles he bit gently at his lower lip. The books were works of instruction on the science of self-cure of the alcohol habit. He opened one of them and noticed she had made some notes in the margins. There was a certain intelligence apparent in the handwriting, a purposefulness amounting to frantic effort. But toward the middle chapters the notes ended, and in the final chapters the pages looked untouched.