He jumped off the stool and walked over to the cash register and squinted at the snap-shots, all fastened together with Scotch tape. "Your goddamn nephews and nieces. Still the goddamn pictures. Still the same old Barker-innocence, innocence, innocence, all around." With his free hand he clawed at them, ripped them off the register, crumpled them in his fist, threw them on the bright linoleum.

"Vern Smith," Barker said suddenly.

"Yeah, Vern Smith." Gaunt, unlovely, disgusted with his own name, he came back and sat down again. "You didn't even remember, did you?"

"You've changed." His body had been like ivory, hair like spun gold, blue eyes dancing with mischief, mouth forever laughing. "Fifteen years is a long time. Vern."

"But you haven't changed, have you, Barker."

"Oh, yes."

"Don't lie to me, you son of a bitch!"

"Vern, just what is this?"

"Vern, just what is this?" The mincing mimicry was savage. Spittle glistened on the twisting lips. "You trying to tell me you don't know? You don't remember what you did to me?"

"I remember," Barker said quietly, "what we did together. I'll never forget that. It was very beautiful."

"Ah, you-" Vern turned away in disgust.

For an instant the gun lay forgotten on the counter, large, heavy-looking, evil on the guileless yellow formica. Barker told himself to grab it. Now. Now. But he was afraid. And the moment passed. Vern turned back.

"I was seventeen goddamn years old. Don't you remember that?" "Every detail. It was a Monday afternoon. May, 1947. Late, after five o'clock. I drove a delivery truck-for the laundry that did the towels for the High School. I brought a truckload of towels to the gym. Place was deserted. Except for you. You were waiting, all alone, to help me unload. It was hot. You had on trunks, that was all. And in the locker room. Yes, Vern. I remember." "And a lot of times after that.'

"A few times. Maybe half a dozen. But only when you came asking for it." "Oh, hell, yes, it was all my fault. You weren't handsome, charming, flattering. What the hell did you expect from a seventeen-year-old-resistance, judgment, moral fiber? Sure, I came. But I never saw you try to turn me away." He grimaced. "And I can still see that apartment of yours, with those goddamn photos all over the walls-those kids, little girls and boys, four, six, eight years old. Nephews and nieces. Smiling down on the bed while we-"

"Vern, what's the matter with you? What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" Vern threw back his head and the sound that came out was supposed to be laughter. "My whole goddamn life's what's wrong. What the hell is there to the kind of life you started me on? What the hell is there but mistakes, and heartbreak, and wanting what you can never get, and cold parks, and bitchy beer bars, and stinking men's rooms, and getting rolled, and getting sick, and more mistakes?" He stared down at the gun in his bony hand, then looked up, steadily, out of sunken eyes. "And jail?"

That explained the sickly pallor.

"I'm sorry,” Barker said softly.

"Yeah, sure you are. Well, sorry's not good enough. Not half good enough. Only not having done it, not to me, not to anybody-only that would be good enough. And it's too late to change that. But it's not too late to stop you ever

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