Read Online Memorial Bridge by James Carroll - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Carroll
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rooms—"
"Pickle rooms?" Cassie felt bile spurt into her mouth.
The policeman took Dillon's forearm and squeezed it hard, intending to hurt him. "You don't want to put your mouth where your feet shouldn't be, my friend. You should check your facts with the man at Swift's before you go upsetting people."
Sean was far from indifferent to the threat he heard in the cop's voice, felt in the vise of the cop's grip, the cop who had nothing to do with any of this, but who also knew instinctively the importance of sticking to the official story, whatever it was.
The men in the tavern moved away from Dillon and the cop, pointedly not listening anymore. Dillon recognized their unsubtle distancing as a form of what he had been doing for years. He might have moved away too at that moment, but the policeman was still holding on to him.
He said, "I don't know what the man at Swift's said. I came here looking for Hanley, to find out what happened."
"Well now you know. The bloke slipped."
"He was flogged," Dillon said, but under his breath so the woman would not hear.
"He still slipped."
It was like offering his soft throat to the wolf astride him when Dillon muttered, "If that's what Hanley says..."
"It is."
The woman interrupted, "But what about what
you
said?"
Dillon looked at her briefly, but his eyes went involuntarily back to
the cop, who said easily, "Don't open that closet door, McGee."
But now, instead of a door, Dillon thought of the iron lid on that downpipe. Before he could respond to the dead man's niece, the policeman released his grip on Dillon's arm and faced her.
"Shall I be taking you home, Miss?"
Miss Ryan refused the policeman by shaking her head. When she glanced around the awful room one last time, it was as if Dillon weren't there. She moved between him and the cop to the door, where she turned and said, "You should all be ashamed of yourselves." Then she walked out into the blue-black night alone.
Dillon followed her.
When he hit the street, she was most of the way to the corner. "Hey, wait up!"
She ignored him.
He began to run after her.
The night air, even here, a mile from the lake, had turned clammy. Dillon was suddenly aware of the sweat on his shirt, his filthy shirt.
The sound of his own hurrying feet faded in his ears as he picked up the sound of hers. He called out again, but she only went faster, not quite breaking into a run. At the corner, across from the Stone Gate, she was swallowed by a throng of night-shift workers streaming out of the yards. Dillon had to cut through them, skipping like a halfback.
When he saw her figure out in the street, crossing toward Walgreen's, he leapt into traffic too. But the drivers did not yield for him as they had for the pretty young woman. The spectacle of his crossing Peoria Street—horns blaring, tires screeching, curses—had the effect, at least, of stopping her.
"Are you crazy?" she asked when he joined her on the sidewalk. "You wouldn't even answer me back there. And now you're getting hit by a car to catch up with me?"
He saw that her face was covered with marks like bruises, and it took him a moment to understand what had happened. Tears pouring freely from her eyes had flooded her makeup. He felt color rising in his own face, and he retreated. "I'm sorry."
"Don't tell me you're sorry!" she said. "I don't care if you are sorry. This has nothing to do with you."
This pain, she meant, this grief. This mess on my face which you have insisted on exposing!
She wasn't finished. "Nothing to do with you! Isn't that what you just said?"
"It was Jack Hanley who said that, not me."
"But it's what you meant."
And of course it was. Dillon had to look away from her. His eyes fell on the old Stone Gate.
"And you know what?" The woman pushed Dillon's arm, to make him look at her again. He saw how angry she was. "It's true. It has nothing to do with you! So leave me alone! Do you hear me?"
"I think the whole South Side hears you."
"Well,
do
"Pickle rooms?" Cassie felt bile spurt into her mouth.
The policeman took Dillon's forearm and squeezed it hard, intending to hurt him. "You don't want to put your mouth where your feet shouldn't be, my friend. You should check your facts with the man at Swift's before you go upsetting people."
Sean was far from indifferent to the threat he heard in the cop's voice, felt in the vise of the cop's grip, the cop who had nothing to do with any of this, but who also knew instinctively the importance of sticking to the official story, whatever it was.
The men in the tavern moved away from Dillon and the cop, pointedly not listening anymore. Dillon recognized their unsubtle distancing as a form of what he had been doing for years. He might have moved away too at that moment, but the policeman was still holding on to him.
He said, "I don't know what the man at Swift's said. I came here looking for Hanley, to find out what happened."
"Well now you know. The bloke slipped."
"He was flogged," Dillon said, but under his breath so the woman would not hear.
"He still slipped."
It was like offering his soft throat to the wolf astride him when Dillon muttered, "If that's what Hanley says..."
"It is."
The woman interrupted, "But what about what
you
said?"
Dillon looked at her briefly, but his eyes went involuntarily back to
the cop, who said easily, "Don't open that closet door, McGee."
But now, instead of a door, Dillon thought of the iron lid on that downpipe. Before he could respond to the dead man's niece, the policeman released his grip on Dillon's arm and faced her.
"Shall I be taking you home, Miss?"
Miss Ryan refused the policeman by shaking her head. When she glanced around the awful room one last time, it was as if Dillon weren't there. She moved between him and the cop to the door, where she turned and said, "You should all be ashamed of yourselves." Then she walked out into the blue-black night alone.
Dillon followed her.
When he hit the street, she was most of the way to the corner. "Hey, wait up!"
She ignored him.
He began to run after her.
The night air, even here, a mile from the lake, had turned clammy. Dillon was suddenly aware of the sweat on his shirt, his filthy shirt.
The sound of his own hurrying feet faded in his ears as he picked up the sound of hers. He called out again, but she only went faster, not quite breaking into a run. At the corner, across from the Stone Gate, she was swallowed by a throng of night-shift workers streaming out of the yards. Dillon had to cut through them, skipping like a halfback.
When he saw her figure out in the street, crossing toward Walgreen's, he leapt into traffic too. But the drivers did not yield for him as they had for the pretty young woman. The spectacle of his crossing Peoria Street—horns blaring, tires screeching, curses—had the effect, at least, of stopping her.
"Are you crazy?" she asked when he joined her on the sidewalk. "You wouldn't even answer me back there. And now you're getting hit by a car to catch up with me?"
He saw that her face was covered with marks like bruises, and it took him a moment to understand what had happened. Tears pouring freely from her eyes had flooded her makeup. He felt color rising in his own face, and he retreated. "I'm sorry."
"Don't tell me you're sorry!" she said. "I don't care if you are sorry. This has nothing to do with you."
This pain, she meant, this grief. This mess on my face which you have insisted on exposing!
She wasn't finished. "Nothing to do with you! Isn't that what you just said?"
"It was Jack Hanley who said that, not me."
"But it's what you meant."
And of course it was. Dillon had to look away from her. His eyes fell on the old Stone Gate.
"And you know what?" The woman pushed Dillon's arm, to make him look at her again. He saw how angry she was. "It's true. It has nothing to do with you! So leave me alone! Do you hear me?"
"I think the whole South Side hears you."
"Well,
do
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