Apparently, in the splish-splash of his alcohol-addled mind, Leaky Rooney had concluded Digby was engineering their divorce so he could step in on Mary Catherine. If Rooney had caved in Meehan’s shoulder for bumping her shopping cart…
Digby couldn’t remember the last time he faced violence. He was a peaceable man, as his thoughtful manner and plump frame suggested, and not at all quick on his feet.
Hmmm.
Digby loosened his tie, took out a yellow pad, and began to develop a strategy, standing now and then to pace. He sat, scribbled, paced. Stroked his chin. Yes, he thought finally, maybe so. He removed the pages and transcribed them, his handwriting neat, the flow of logic impeccable.
For safety’s sake, he decided to bypass dinner at a Buchanan Avenue restaurant. Warm buttered popcorn would have to do as Taras Bulba unfolded and until his nap began. There was an all-night diner by the Erie-Lackawanna Terminal that had a fine grilled ham steak, or maybe the Grotto would still be serving its famous zuppa di vongole when the late movie let out. Digby would make do until he could implement his plan.
As he slipped back into his coat, he looked around his apartment, his bachelor’s nest. Shutting the lights, Digby said goodbye to solitude and headed into the chilly Narrows Gate evening.
“And so what does he do, this Digby? This Michael Francis Digby? This attorney at law? He…”
Rooney paused to order another bullet, and Finnerty limped over with the Four Roses bottle, its spigot reflecting the Shamrock’s dull lighting. The jukebox was silent, the pool table abandoned save for the cue ball and bridge.
As Finnerty lifted a dollar, Rooney raged on.
“Not as a man would. No. Not. Hiding behind the law. Digby, this… Digby. Trying to- And a working man at that. Me.” Rooney tapped his chest. “I’m earning and he’s… O’Boyle, what’s the word? He’s… He’s conspiring. That’s it. Conspiring!”
Staring at the rows of bottles stretched before him, seventy-two-year-old O’Boyle nodded, though he was hardly listening. His beloved Rat Catcher slept on sawdust under her master’s feet.
Rooney burped. He’d put a sizable dent in the money he’d earned today, the short stack of singles all but flat now. Immediately after leaving the job site, he’d marched through the rain to Digby’s storefront office, which he found empty again, but with its lights aglow. Short of ideas on where to look next, he repaired to the bar, sledgehammer looped in his belt.
“Rooney, it’s none of my business, but I got to say I know Digby since we was in kindergarten at St, Matty’s and I never seen him steal so much as a piece of penny candy,” Finnerty said.
O’Boyle nodded.
“Ah. So I’m a liar, am I?”
Finnerty leaned his hands on the bar. “What I’m saying is maybe you’re mistaken.”
“Mistaken,” Rooney grumbled.
“And Mary Catherine-”
“Mrs. Rooney to you,” he said, his eyelids bobbing.
“Mary Catherine wouldn’t spit at you and say it’s raining, Rooney. That I know.”
“I see as she’s under his spell,” he replied. “The web he spins with the big words, his education…”
As he wiped his hands on his apron, Finnerty rolled his eyes.
“Digby’s spell,” O’Boyle chuckled.
“That’s enough from you,” Rooney said, jabbing O’Boyle’s bony shoulder with a finger.
Rat Catcher stood, fixing Rooney in his sights, ready to bare her remaining teeth.
“Why don’t you talk to him?” Finnerty said. “Digby don’t lie.”
“I would but for his hiding. As for his lying-”
“Digby’s not hiding,” O’Boyle said as he reached for the beer nuts. “He’s at the movies.”
Finnerty grimaced.
“The movies…” Rooney said. Draining the last of his bourbon and the foamy Rheingold, he slid carefully off the stool, avoiding Rat Catcher, who sneered at him nonetheless. Bending to peer at the mirror behind the liquor bottles, he matted down his hair, centered the shoulders of his work coat, and gathered up his change, leaving a dime for Finnerty. Without a word, he staggered toward the door, red neon reflecting in his pinwheeling eyes.
When Rooney left, Finnerty stared at O’Boyle. “Now why did you do that, putting Digby in his sights? You know full well Digby can’t-”
O’Boyle slowly raised his fist, which held Rooney’s baby sledgehammer.
Finnerty called from the bar.
“All right, Thomas,” Mary Catherine groaned. “I thank you. Give my regards to Lucy, and to your mother too.”
Anna’s sharp tongue and sinister logic made her unbearable to her siblings, so Mary Catherine had to drag her along. As they took their seats on the jitney, she turned to her daughter, who was pinned against the sidewall and rain-streaked window by her mother’s heft.
“Anna, if you say one word out of turn, I swear I’ll send you to Grandma before the night is through.”
“I don’t mind Grandma McIlwaine,” Anna replied.
“I wasn’t talking about Grandma McIlwaine.”
“Well, Grandma Rooney is dead.”
“Exactly so.” She stared ahead toward the driver.
Twelve blocks later, they hurried through the rain to under the sputtering lights of the Avalon’s marquee, late for the sunset matinee and early for the eight o’clock show. They paid full price-one adult, one child-and took the faded red carpet on the sweeping staircase to the balcony where, as long-time Narrows Gate’s residents knew, Francis Michael Digby napped. As furious Cossacks stormed into battle on screen, horses stampeding in rhythm to the glorious orchestral score, Mary Catherine ducked beneath the flickering projection. Hand above her brow, she located Digby nuzzled against a chipped wall, his chin cupped in his hand.
Dragging Anna behind her, she approached.
“Digby,” she whispered, in order not to disturb the other patrons sprinkled throughout the musty balcony. “Digby.”