The third woman present had been Mitzi Black, the slim yellow maid Rosemary Rose had engaged for the road troupe. Mitzi, so Joe said, could be made to perform if enough liquor was poured down the inside of her neck. Straight alkie did the trick. She changed clothes and sex with Georgie Porgie, and with a black cigar in her mouth, entertained the party with low-down Harlem obscenities. Unhappily, she had passed out soon afterwards and Joe, good old Joe, had taken her to her room in the boarding house for colored artists, around the corner.
Gone now, they were all gone. The party was over. Ken turned from the mirror to the room. The acrid odor of alcohol still filled his nostrils. Empty bottles, crushed cigarettes, ash-strewn carpets—he unsteadily crossed to the bedroom door.
He was alone. It was dawn. Exhausted by the long night, he sank to his knees. He rested against the door for a time. At last he rose to undress. When he was free of his garments, he entered the bedroom, into which the pale morning light peered gingerly, as if afraid to reveal the disordered bed, the stale liquor in glasses on the dresser-top.
He toppled face down on the bed. This weariness was good. Sleep, like death, would come easily. He would not have to think.
The door vibrated. House Detective John J. McInerney struck it again and again with his fist. The gold ring on his little finger cut into his skin. He turned to Mitzi Black.
"If you'll prefer charges, I'll open the door. If you don't, I can't."
"You mean arrest him?" the negress asked hesitantly.
"Yes."
