rose to a roof skylight six floors up. The din of phonograph and radio jazz echoed against the roof and down to the street. As Ken climbed the stairs to the fifth floor, Carter trailed him. They passed open doors, girls in kimonos, a card game.
Luisa Pagano's door was ajar. Her room was dull with faded plush furniture. A dim, unshielded electric bulb shed a weak overhead glow. On an old green plush sofa was a tableau: a blonde, perched on the lap of a sailor, hair awry, skirts above her knees. They were kissing.
Luisa's eyes shone. "Hello, boys," she said. "We been on a toot since nine p.m. I've had a hooker or two or three or four. Can't remember which. Gee, Dick, I'm glad to see you mutts, hot pants and everything. Put 'er there!" She threw her arms around Ken's neck and kissed him with quivering wet lips.
"Here's a pint," Dick said. He handed a bottle to Luisa. The girl tore the metallic tab with her teeth. The bottle was open. "Drink, horse-face," said Dick.
She poured a tumbler half full and gulped the raw stuff down. "Whee-ee!" she cried shrilly.
"How about Emma?" said Dick.
"How about it, Emma?" Luisa said, pushing the sailor's face away from the blonde's neck.
"Emma's mine," said the sailor.
"I'm his'n," said Emma.
"I'll go home," said Ken.
"Like hell you will," Carter pulled him toward the door. "C'mon, Luisa. You can afford to be nice to the both of us, can't you?"
"I'm everybody's," said Luisa emphatically.
