"So do I," Nitz said, with a shade of emphasis that eluded Schilling. "She's a nut, but she's okay."

Schilling said: "How do you mean, nut?" It didn't sound gallant, and he wasn't sure he approved.

"Mary takes things too seriously. You ever in your life heard her laugh?"

He tried to remember. "I've seen her smile." He had her very clearly, now. Which was a good thing.

"None of the kids laugh anymore," Nitz said. "It must be the times. All they do is worry."

"Yes," he agreed, "she always worries."

"Are you talking about me?" Mary Anne's voice came in. "Because if you are, cut it out."

"She'll tell you what to do," Nitz said. "She's got a mind of her own. But-" he began painting again- "in some ways she's two years old. It's easy to forget that. She's a little kid wandering around lost, looking for somebody to find her. Some kindly cop with brass buttons and a badge to lead her home."

"Stop it!" Mary Anne ordered, leaping down and padding into the bedroom, the paint roller leaking a trail of yellow after her. Rubbing her cheek with her wrist, she reminded them: "This is my house, you know; I could throw both of you out."

"Little Miss Wise," Nitz said to her.

"You shut up."

Handing Schilling his cigarette, Nitz jumped forward and grabbed the girl around the waist. Sweeping her up, he carried her to the open window and lifted her over the sill. "Out you go," he said.

Screaming and clutching at him, Mary Anne kicked wildly, her arms around his neck, her bare feet thumping against the wall. "You let me down! You hear me, Paul Nitz?"

"Can't hear you." Grinning, he lowered her to the floor. Shaky and winded, Mary Anne sank down in a heap; pulling her knees up, she rested her chin on them and clasped her arms around her ankles.

"All right," she grumbled, panting for breath, "I think you're just funny as hell."

Stooping over her, Nitz untied her bandana. "That's what you need," he told the indignant girl, "a good taking-down. You're getting too uppity."

Mary Anne sneered at him and then climbed to her feet. "Look," she proclaimed. "I'm going to have a bruise on my arm where you grabbed me."

"You'll live," Nitz said. He picked up his roller and climbed back on his chair.

Momentarily, Mary Anne glowered up. Then, all at once, she smiled. "I know something about you."

"What?"

"You're no good at painting." Her smile increased. "You can't see well enough to tell where it's uneven."

"That's true," Nitz admitted fatalistically. "I'm nearsighted as hell."

Pivoting on her bare heel, Mary Anne padded back to the living room and resumed her toil.

At ten-thirty Schilling went downstairs to the parked car and got the fifth of Glayva scotch from the glove compartment. At the sight of it, Nitz's face turned an avid, delighted gray. "Jesus," he said, "what do you have there, man? Is that on the level?"

Schilling rummaged among the cartons of dishes and pots until he found tumblers. Half-filling each with tap water, he placed the three of them on the tile sink and then opened the bottle.

"Hey, hey, man," Nitz protested. "Don't put any of that dirty old water in mine."

"That's your chaser," Schilling said, passing him the bottle. "It's good stuff ... see how it strikes you."

Nitz's throat expanded as he drank from the bottle. "Whooo-ee," he gasped, snorting and shaking his head. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he returned the bottle to Schilling. "Man, oh, man. You know what I call that? That's angel pee, pure and simple."

Curious, Mary Anne appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Where's mine?"

"You can have a tablespoonful," Schilling said.

The girl's eyes blazed. "Tablespoonful, nothing! Come on-" She grabbed at the bottle. "You gave me some of that other stuff, that wine."

"This is different." But he found a plastic measuring cup among the dishes and poured an inch or so for her. "Don't choke," he warned her. "Sip it, don't drink it. Pretend it's cough medicine."

Mary Anne glared at him and then cautiously lifted the rim of the cup. Wrinkling her nose, she said: "It smells like gasoline."

"You've had scotch before," Nitz said. "Tweany drinks scotch-you've had it over there."

Each deep in his own thoughts, the two men watched her gulp down a mouthful of scotch. Mary Anne made a face, shuddered, and then reached for her glass of water.

"You see?" Schilling chided. "You didn't want it after all; you didn't like it."

"It ought to be mixed with something," she answered speculatively. "Fruit juice, maybe."

Nitz shook his head. "You better stay away from me awhile."

"Oh, you'll recover." Mary Anne disappeared into the living room; clambering back up on her chair, she resumed work.

The men each had a go at the scotch once more. "It's superb stuff," Schilling said.

"I already told you my opinion," Nitz said. "But it's not for kids."

"No," Schilling agreed, feeling uneasy. "I didn't really give her any."

"Okay," Nitz said, and walked off, leaving Schilling standing alone. "Well, back to the salt mine."

"Maybe we better call it quits," Schilling said, looking after him. With a kind of sorrow he felt the man's deep jealousy of him-and knew also that it was just and right. He had come in and taken the girl away from her world, her town, away from Nitz. He couldn't blame him.

"Not quite quits," Nitz said. "I want to finish the bedroom."

"All right," Schilling said, resigned.

The three of them worked until eleven-thirty. Schilling, as he crept along the floor, touching up the baseboard, found himself almost unable to straighten his legs. And the bruise on his knee, where the store counter had struck him, was swollen and sore.

"I'm getting old," he said to Nitz, halting and throwing down his paintbrush.

"Are you stopping?" Mary Anne called anxiously. "Both of you?"

Apologetically, Nitz entered the living room. He was tugging on his frayed sports coat; he was departing. "Sorry, sweetheart. I've got to get to the Wren; Eaton'll fire me."

Schilling sighed with secret relief. "I'll drive you over. It's time we knocked off anyhow; we've done all we can for one night."

"My God, I've still got to play." Nitz displayed his paint-stained fingers. "Some of these should be replaced."

Walking into the kitchen with Nitz, Schilling said, "Do me a favor?"

"Sure," Nitz said.

"Take the scotch with you." It was a gesture of propitiation ... and he wanted now to get rid of the thing.

"Hell, I didn't do that much painting."

"I meant for us to drink it up, but I lost track of the time." He placed the bottle in a brown paper bag and presented it to Nitz. "Is it a deal?"

Mary Anne came pattering into the kitchen. "Can I ride along?" she begged. "I want to go along with you."

"Better wipe the paint off your face," Schilling said.

She blushed and began searching for a damp rag. "You don't mind, do you? It's so lonely here ... no furniture, and everything messy and confused. Nothing finished."

"Glad to have you," Schilling murmured, still a little upset by Nitz's behavior.

She cleaned the paint from her face, and he helped her into her jacket. Then she followed the two men out the door of the apartment; together they descended the stairs to the dark street. The drive took only a few moments.

"Looks like a fair crowd," Schilling said as the fat red doors of the Wren were pushed aside to admit a couple. It was the first time he had seen this place, the girl's old hangout. Suddenly he said to her: "Want to go in for a while?"

"Not like we are."

"Who cares?" Nitz said, stepping from the car onto the pavement.

"No," she decided, with a glance at Schilling. "Some other time; I want to get back. There's too much to do."