He hurried to the corridor and reached down into the closet. Old paint cans and roller skates rattled.

“You’ll wake the whole house.”

“To the devil with the whole house.”

She said, “Would you use the brain-”

There stood Leaky Rooney, his baby sledgehammer in his fist. “No one makes a fool of me,” he announced.

“Except you,” Mary Catherine muttered as he began his bumble down four flights of stairs.

The following day, Rooney caught a day’s work helping to tar the roof at Narrows Gate High School, other men walking away when it started to rain. So he postponed his search for Digby, who in his mind had grown devil’s horns and a pig’s snout, and was all set to slip an arm around Mary Catherine’s waist, serenading her with oink-oinks, sweeping her off her feet with his silver-tongued attorney talk. Last night, Rooney sobered as he waited between the fins of cars parked nose-in outside Digby’s office. Soon, midnight came, but Digby had not.

Walking his beat, Malatesta the cop saw Rooney once, twice, and the third time told him to go home, his family was waiting.

“That’ll be the day I need advice from the likes of you.”

“How’s that, Rooney?” Malatesta said, cupping his ear.

A man had to reclaim his wife. It was natural law, for which no degree was required.

Malatesta smacked his open palm with his nightstick. “Home, Leaky,” he repeated.

While Rooney melted and applied tar, his wife toiled diligently at the small, storefront Bell Telephone office on Sixth and Buchanan. The working life was still new to Mary Catherine, but she’d taken commercial courses in high school and knew how to do what she was told. Her boss was easygoing: Though Mrs. Leibowitz wore a bun that brought her head to a point, she allowed the day shift to correspond to school hours. At three o’clock, the mothers were succeeded by single women who called themselves the Night Owls.

Knowing this, Digby arranged to find himself walking the avenue as Mary Catherine headed home. What a coincidence, he’d say when they met, offering to share his umbrella. Then, lowering his voice, he’d add that he had the papers ready for her to sign. In the course of their stroll, he would refer calmly to the finality of her actions, how such a thing done couldn’t be easily undone. As the wiser of the two, she was likely to express some reservation. Then why not sleep on it? Digby would propose. Then, several hours later, he’d drop in the Shamrock and who should he see but Leaky. Mr. Rooney, what a coincidence, he’d say, and buy him a round, whispering discreetly that he had papers in his office. Should we go now? he’d asked, knowing Leaky wouldn’t leave the stool until he toppled off it. He’d propose-

Digby was shaken from his reverie by a small voice from behind.

“Hey Digby.” The little girl wore a St. Matty’s uniform, its white blouse dislodged from a checkered skirt. Polish failed to hide the wear on her saddle shoes.

“Hi there…”

“Anna. Anna Rooney.”

“Anna, yes.” Exhibit A as to why the Rooneys should remain united. A pinprick to tranquility’s balloon, the freckly kid needed guidance. “How are you?”

“Me, I’m always good.”

He looked at her. She was more Leaky than Mary Catherine, the glint of wicked mischief in the eyes, blunt chin high in defiance.

“Digby. My dad is looking for you.”

“Okay. I’ll be in my office-” Here Digby looked at his wristwatch. “-in about an hour.”

“No Digby, you don’t want to do that,” Anna told him. “My dad’s not too happy with you.”

“Now why would you say something like that? Your father-”

“You went to St. Matty’s with my mother, right?”

“Yes, but-”

“Was she pretty?”

“I suppose,” Digby replied. “Well, yes. Yes, she was. But why-”

“My father’s going to take his hammer to your head, Digby.” She was tapping her foot at the edge of a puddle, causing ripples in the murky water.

“Anna-”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Digby hurried home, aware a law degree was no match for a lunatic with his sledgehammer. He locked the door and went to the refrigerator to retrieve a cold drink, his throat parched from his rapid retreat up Rogers Point. But all he found was a jar of mayonnaise and a soggy carton of chow fun. Tap water sufficed.

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.