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Show 32 painted pictures by night. Oil on canvas. Malone could be found each day, after his route and until five, at the Hi-Brau; holding court, drinking cheap Irish whiskey, and bitching, mostly about the government. If nothing else, he was company to Fogarty's misery. "Shit," Fogarty could hear Malone saying as he stepped in out of the sun, "the next thing you know they'll have us in a safe little war. You watch. There are too many generals out of work. Yeah, out of work but not out of gas." "The dog kicking his master again?" said Fogarty, having come up quietly behind Malone at the bar. "You're in uniform yourself, you know." It was true. Malone had changed his shirt, but he was still wearing his regulation gray summer shorts with the black stripes. Now he pivoted on the stool and appeared before Fogarty with his palm raised, as though he had been expecting precisely that comment from an unseen quarter. "I am the loyal opposition," he said. "It is my duty and responsibility to oppose and protest. You know what I saw yesterday on my route? I'll tell you. Four guys on one City truck, counting potholes. Not fixing them, counting them. Not one, but four. And moving slow." "Unlike yourself," said Fogarty, glad for the dark coolness of the Hi-Brau and this arresting of his attention. "Unlike myself," said Malone, "who walks eight and one quarter miles every day over cracked City sidewalk covered with dog shit |
