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back to watching Corrigan.
    After a moment, she said, "Next time he wakes up, you'll let me know?"
    He looked up again. "Right away," he said, crossing his heart in a school-boy's gesture.
    "I wonder what you were like as a child?" she said, glancing at his unmended socks and rumpled hair.
    "Ah, my dear," he said, not meeting her eyes, "no, you don't. No, you don't."
    He did not want to sleep, and he did not worry that he would. He washed his face with cold water, then lay back down on the bed, watching Corrigan. He spent a number of minutes in the same useless way he had spent earlier hours--speculating on who had done this to Corrigan, and why. Jack had been closemouthed about what he would be doing this evening. Thinking back on it, O'Connor realized that Corrigan had made stronger than usual protests about O'Connor keeping tabs on him.
    "Why on earth didn't I know you were up to something then and there?" he murmured to himself. "It's not as if I just met you, is it?"
    **CHAPTER 7
    O'CONNOR GOT HIS FIRST PAYING JOB WHEN HE WAS EIGHT YEARS OLD, in 1936. That was the year he began selling the Express on the corner of Broadway and Las Piernas Boulevard. At that time, the morning paper in Las Piernas was the News, the evening, the Express. Although the papers were owned by the same publisher--Mr. Winston Wrigley--and worked out of the same building, the two staffs were fiercely competitive, paperboys included. The star reporter of the News was a woman named Helen Swan; on the Express, young Jack Corrigan was making a name for himself.
    Every day, O'Connor hurried from school to the paper, never failing to admire the big ornate building itself ("Grand as a palace," he'd told his sister Maureen) or to feel important as he stood on his corner, shouting headlines, calling out the words "Ex-press here!" in a manner that caught the ears of bustling businessmen and shoppers on their way home. He quickly learned how to charm his customers, how to make sure they bought their papers from him and no one else. He promoted the star reporter of his paper, smiling and singing out, "Jack Corrigan! Jack Corrigan! Only in the Exxxx-press."
    One day, as he was extolling Corrigan's work he heard a woman laugh. He turned to see a beautiful young lady--blond, blue-eyed, and bow-lipped, dressed in a fur coat and walking arm in arm with none other than his champion. She laughed again and said, "I suppose you'll be hurt if I don't buy one from him, Jack."
    Jack winked at O'Connor, then said, "No, Lil, I'll be hurt if you don't give him a tip as well." So she had given him a silver dollar for a paper that cost a nickel, and when she had refused the change, or to take twenty copies, he had been so astonished that for a time he just stood looking at the coin.
    "What's your name, kid?" Corrigan asked.
    "O'Connor, sir."
    "Hmm. Got a first name?"
    O'Connor felt his cheeks turn red, but answered, "Connor."
    "Connor O'Connor? That's a little redundant, isn't it?" the woman said, laughing again.
    But Corrigan took his arm from hers then and hunkered down so that he was eye level with the boy. "No, it's not. It's a name passed down from a king. Do you know about him?"
    "Conn of the Hundred Battles," O'Connor answered.
    Corrigan smiled. "So, Conn of the Hundred Battles, what's the best corner in Las Piernas?"
    "For selling the evening edition? Corner of Broadway and Magnolia."
    Corrigan peered down the street. "Ah, yes. Southwest corner, I suppose. A courthouse, office buildings, two busy restaurants, and a bus stop."
    "Yes, sir."
    "Jack..." the woman said impatiently.
    "In a minute, darling. This is my fellow newspaperman. We're talking business. Besides, my father would rise from his grave to haunt me if I didn't show respect for one of his countrymen." He stood and tipped his hat. "Thank you for the conversation, Mr. O'Connor," he said, and tossed a nickel to the boy.
    "I already paid for the paper!" the woman said.
    "No, my dear," Corrigan replied. "I paid