When he got home, he carried the crate into the house and pried it open with a screwdriver. The stuff looked exactly as Ray had said it would, like waxy gray candles. Beneath the sticks and a layer of newspaper were two fat white loops of fuse. The loops of fuse had been secured with white plastic ties that looked identical to the ones with which he secured his Hefty garbage bags.

He put the crate in the living room closet and tried to forget it, but it seemed to give off evil emanations that spread out from the closet to cover the whole house, as though something evil had happened in there years ago, something that had slowly and surely tainted everything.

He drove down to the Landing Strip and crawled up and down the streets, looking for Drake’s place of business. He saw crowded tenements standing shoulder to shoulder, so exhausted that it seemed that they would collapse if the buildings flanking them were taken away. A forest of TV antennas rose from the top of each one, standing against the sky like frightened hair. Bars, closed until noon. A derelict car in the middle of a side street, tires gone, headlights gone, chrome gone, making it look like a bleached cow skeleton in the middle of Death Valley. Glass twinkled in the gutters. All the pawnshops and liquor stores had accordion grilles across their plate glass windows. He thought: That’s what we learned from the race riots eight years ago. How to prevent looting in an emergency. And halfway down Venner Street he saw a small storefront with a sign in Old English letters. The sign said:

He parked, locked the car, and went inside. There were only two customers, a young black kid in an oversize pea coat who seemed to be dozing, and an old white boozer who was sipping coffee from a thick white porcelain mug. His hands trembled helplessly each time the mug approached his mouth. The boozer’s skin was yellow and when he looked-up his eyes were haunted with light, as if the whole man were trapped inside this stinking prison, too deep to get out.

Drake was sitting behind the counter at the rear, next to a two-burner hotplate. One Silex held hot water, the other black coffee. There was a cigar box on the counter with some change in it. There were two signs, crayoned on construction paper. One said:

Coffee 15c

Tea 15c

All soda 25c

Balogna 30c

PB amp;125c

Hot Dog 35c

The other sign said:

All Drop In counter help are VOLUNTEERS and when you serve yourself you make them feel useless and stupid. Please wait and remember GOD LOVES YOU!

Drake looked up from his magazine, a tattered copy of The National Lampoon. For a moment his eyes went that peculiar hazy shade of a man snapping his mental fingers for the right name, and then he said: “Mr. Dawes, how are you?”

“Good. Can I get a cup of coffee?”

“Sure can.” He took one of the thick mugs off the second layer of the pyramid behind him and poured. “Milk?”

“Just black.” He gave Drake a quarter and Drake gave him a dime out of the cigar box. “I wanted to thank you for the other night, and I wanted to make a contribution.”

“Nothing to thank me for.”

“Yes there is. That party was what they call a bad scene.”

“Chemicals can do that. Not always, but sometimes. Some boys brought in a friend of theirs last summer who had dropped acid in the city park. The kid went into a screaming fit because he thought the pigeons were coming after him to eat him. Sounds like a Reader’s Digest horror story, doesn’t it?”

“The girl who gave me the mescaline said she once plunged a man’s hand out of the drain. She didn’t know afterwards if it really happened or not.”

“Who was she?”

“I really don’t know,” he said truthfully. “Anyway, here.” He put a roll of bills on the counter next to the cigar box. The roll was secured with a rubber band.

Drake frowned at it without touching it.

“Actually it’s for this place,” he said. He was sure Drake knew that, but he needed to plug Drake’s silence.

Drake unfastened the rubber band, holding the bills with his left, manipulating with that oddly scarred right. He put the rubber band aside and counted slowly.

“This is five thousand dollars,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Would you be offended if I asked you where-”

“I got it? No. I wouldn’t be offended. From the sale of my house to this city. They are going to put a road through there.”

“Your wife agrees?”

“My wife has no say in the matter. We are separated. Soon to be divorced. She has her half of the sale to do with as she sees fit.”

“I see.”

Behind them, the old boozer began to hum. It was not a tune; just humming.

Drake poked moodily at the bills with his right forefinger. The comers of the bills were curled up from being rolled. “I can’t take this,” he said finally.

“Why not?”

Drake said: “Don’t you remember what we talked about?”

He did. “I’ve no plans that way.”

“I think you do. A man with his feet planted in this world does not give money away on a whim.”

“This is not a whim,” he said firmly.

Drake looked at him sharply. “What would you call it? A chance acquaintance?”

“Hell, I’ve given money away to people I’ve never seen. Cancer researchers. A Save-the-Child Foundation. A muscular dystrophy hospital in Boston. I’ve never been in Boston.”

“Sums this large?”

“No.”

“And cash money, Mr. Dawes. A man who still has a use for money never wants to see it. He cashes checks, signs papers. Even playing nickle-ante poker he uses chips. It makes it symbolic. And in our society a man with no use for money hasn’t much use for living, either.”

“That’s a pretty goddamned materialistic attitude for-”

“A priest? But I’m not that anymore. Not since this happened.” He held up the scarred, wounded hand. “Shall I tell you how I get the money to keep this place on its feet? We came too late for the window-dressing charities like the United Fund or the City Appeal Fund. The people who work here are all retired, old people who don’t understand the kids who come in here, but want to be something besides just a face leaning out of a third-story window watching the street. I’ve got some kids on probation that scout up bands to play for free on Friday and Saturday night, bands that are just starting up and need the exposure. We pass the hat. But mostly the grease comes from rich people, the upper crust. I do tours. I speak at ladies’ teas. I tell them about the kids on bummers and the Sterno freaks that sleep under the viaducts and make newspaper fires to keep from freezing in the winter. I tell them about the fifteen-year-old girl who’d been on the road since 1971 and came in here with big white lice crawling all over her head and her pubic hair. I tell them about all the VD in Norton. I tell them about the fishermen, guys that hang out in the bus terminals looking for boys on the run, offering them jobs as male whores. I tell them about how these young boys end up blowing some guy in a theater men’s room for ten dollars, fifteen if he promises to swallow the come. Fifty percent for him and fifty percent for his pimp. And these women, their eyes go all shocked and then sort of melty and tender, and probably their thighs get all wet and sloppy, but they pony up and that’s the important thing. Sometimes you can latch onto one and get more than a ten-buck contribution. She takes you to her house in Crescent for dinner, introduces you to the family, and gets you to say grace after the maid brings the first course. And you say it, no matter how bad the words taste in your mouth and you rumple the kid’s hair-there’s always one, Dawes, just the one, not like the nasty rabbits down in this part of town that breed a whole tenementful of them-and you say what a fine young man you’ve got here, or what a pretty girl, and if you’re very lucky the lady will have invited some of her bridge buddies or country club buddies to see this sideshow-freak priest, who’s probably a radical and running guns to the Panthers or the Algerian Freedom League, and you do the old Father Brown bit, add a trace of the auld Blarney, and smile until your face hurts. All this is known as shaking the money tree, and it’s all done in the most elegant of surroundings, but going home it feels just like you were down on your knees and eating some AC/DC businessman’s cock in one of the stalls at Cinema 41. But what the hell, that’s my game, part of my 'penance' if you’ll pardon the word, but my penance doesn’t include necrophilia. And that, Mr. Dawes, is what I feel you are offering me. And that’s why I have to say no.”