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to know that。 The man came to the bar one night early in September； during a late heat wave。 He had rolled up the sleeves of his white cotton shirt； and the cloth at his armpits was circled with sweat。 At first Christian thought he was an old man； by the usual standards at any rate； a very old； sad； tired man。 Then he looked again and saw that the man could not be much older than fifty。
But this was a man who carried himself as if expecting blows； a man turned inward； looking out at the world through guarded eyes。 His clipped curly hair was only beginning to go from brown to gray。 He had a face that might once have been kind…deep careworn lines； brown eyes that had seen too much pain。 There was still warmth in those eyes； but it was warmth dampened with weariness and watchfulness。 Christian thought that whatever this man chose to drink； he would take it straight； and he would take a lot of it
〃Scotch；〃 said the man。 〃Chivas Regal。〃 Christian poured it over ice。 The man held the glass up to the light； frowned into its amber depths。 Then he brought it to his lips and tossed the whiskey down in one practiced motion。 Christian heard the ice chitter against the man's teeth。 The man spat it back into the glass。 Then he looked at Christian and said； 〃My name is Wallace Creech；〃 and held out his hand。
〃Christian；〃 said Christian； taking the hand。 He looked straight into Wallace's eyes。 Wallace stared back； unflinching。 Most people started at the touch of Christian's fingers and withdrew quickly； rubbing their hands against their clothing to rid themselves of Christian's icy touch； glancing away from the cold light of Christian's eyes。 But Wallace looked steadily back； grasped Christian's hand harder； and said； 〃A fine name。〃
Only then did Christian notice the small silver crucifix that hung on a chain around Wallace's neck； glinting in the dim light of the bar。 〃I'm afraid I'm not；〃 Christian told him。
〃I beg your pardon？〃
〃I don't belong to a church。 I'm not religious。〃 It is possible to live too long for such forts； Christian thought。
〃Ah；〃 said Wallace knowingly。 Christian expected him to reach into his pocket for a tract。 Over the years； Christian had been given hundreds of them and had found hundreds more left on the tables； or under them。 Everything from the smudgily printed； misspelled credo of a snake…handling cult from the Louisiana swamps to a lurid pamphlet called Rock Music Is Worse than LSD！ Christian was curious as to what drew people to these religions； their obsession with their own mortality intrigued him； and he read all the tracts。
But Wallace didn't offer him a tract。 Instead； he changed the subject abruptly； asking； 〃Have you had this place long？〃
Christian felt a touch of shame。 He had misjudged the old man。 From the looks of him； Wallace needed all the faith he could muster。 The pain seemed to pour from him。 He must be lonely； just trying to make conversation； and talk was part of a bartender's job。
〃Twenty years；〃 Christian told him。
〃You must have been a very young man when you opened it。〃
〃I am older than I look；〃 said Christian； smiling slightly。 His face had not changed； had grown no older； had lost none of its narrow cold beauty since the last night of Mardi Gras fifteen years ago； the night he had slept in the arms of Molochai； his belly heavy and warm with Molochai's blood。 Christian had not aged for a very long time。
〃So I gather；〃 said Wallace dryly。
Christian paused； looking into Wallace's face。 Wallace's expression was no different than before； the eyes were the same； the hurt； frowning eyes； the lines bracketing the mouth as weary and patient as before。 Christian dismissed the remark as meaningless…the man only wanted someone to talk to。 He was lonely。 Religious people always seemed lonely； perhaps that explained their need to be among great crowds of people who believed as they did。 Such a great fort； to be among others of your kind； and such loneliness when there were none。 How could humans ever believe themselves truly lonely when there were so many of them？
〃Another drink？〃 Christian asked。
Wallace tossed back a second shot of Chivas； then surprised Christian by asking。 〃Is business always this slow？〃 Then； realizing what he had said； he tried to apologize。 〃I didn't mean to be rude…I was only curious。 It's a nice place； a good location； the French Quarter…〃
The man was babbling； and Christian realized that for some reason Wallace Creech was terrified。 The empty glass in his hand rattled against the bar； the ice made cold little chinking sounds。 The man seemed on the point of belting。
Christian dumped the melting ice cubes； scooped in fresh ones； poured another shot。 This one was a double； but he watched Wallace put it away with the same practiced motion； not even grimacing。 Here was a seasoned drinker。
〃Why are you here； Wallace Creech？〃 Christian asked softly。 〃What do you want？〃
Wallace's hand went to the cross at his throat。 Then； as if trying to conceal the gesture； he ran a finger around the inside of his collar； loosening it； though the top button was already undone。 'There was a girl； once；〃 he said。 〃Jessy。 Small； thin。 Short brown hair。 Black dress。 She used to e here。〃
Christian felt a cold fist squeeze shut somewhere deep inside him。 The fist twisted； clenched； it was wrapped around some vital part of him； tearing him loose inside。 He licked his lips。 His mouth tasted of sour blood。 He pretended to think。 〃Jessy；〃 he said。 〃Jessy。 Such a long time ago。。。 but perhaps I remember。 She stopped ing in fifteen years ago。
〃Was that after Mardi Gras 。 。 。 fifteen years ago？〃
〃I think so；〃 said Christian； and tasted the sour blood again。
〃She was my daughter；〃 said Wallace。
Christian swallowed。 He was suddenly thirsty。 〃And she just disappeared？〃 he asked。 〃Didn't you call the police？〃
〃I didn't； no。 Jessy was wild。〃 For a moment Wallace's face was a Mardi Gras mask of tragedy； then he put his hand over his eyes； frowned his tears away； and went on。 〃She was forever threatening to leave home； saying I didn't give her enough money； saying I was dull。 She liked to go out and drink。 She was angry because I made her continue with school when she wanted to drop out。 She didn't seem to care about anything 。 。 。 certainly not her father。〃
Wallace covered his eyes again。 〃A girl needs her mother； I think； and Lydia…my wife…died when Jessy was only five。 Suicide； a sin。 I brought our daughter up myself； and did a poor job； I suppose。 When Jessy disappeared； I thought she had run off with a boy。 I hoped she would e back when his money was gone。 She had such strange notions。。。 such very strange notions。。。 and sending the police after her would have made her hate me。〃
〃Why are you here now？〃 Christian couldn't look at Wallace's eyes。 He stared at the silver cross； at the soft loose skin of the man's throat behind it。
〃Well 。 。 。 after Jessy left； I moved all her things to the attic。 When I realized she wasn't ing back； I hated to look at them。 Recently I happened to think of them； and I wondered whether her old clothes might be good enough to give to my church gr