“No, not a flophouse,” the derelict said into the telephone. “A rooming house. The address?” He hesitated. “You ain’t gonna hurt her none, are you? Cause she was nice to me. Bought me supper.” A short silence. “Well, that’s all right then. Husband needs to talk to his wife.” He gave the address. “When do I get my money?” Another short silence. “Yeah, I’ll wait here for you.” He replaced the receiver and settled across the street, his eyes on the rooming house the woman had gone into, dreaming of the full bottle of booze he was going to buy with the money.
