Harry still lay as they had left him, stretched out on the sofa. The heavy noon-day sun hit directly on his face, beating down on him like a club. He hardly felt its blows, however. He was busy with the stabbing pain in his chest. He was so busy with himself that he had even stopped trying to plan how to get money out of the big dope.
Homer drew the window curtain to shade his face. Harry didn’t even notice. He was thinking about death. Faye bent over him. He saw, from under his partially closed eyelids, that she expected him to make a reassuring gesture. He refused. He examined the tragic expression that she had assumed and didn’t like it. In a serious moment like this, her ham sorrow was insulting.
“Speak to me, Daddy,” she begged.
She was baiting him without being aware of it.
“What
