"Julie!" Ken cried.
"Hello," Monroe returned. Then his mouth opened wide in astonishment. "Ken Gracey—how are you?"
"Where are you going?"
"The 23 Club on West Fifty-second. My car is around the corner or I'd hop in with you."
"I'll meet you there." Ken's spirits rose. He stepped on the accelerator and the powerful motor thrust him forward into Fifth Avenue.
The 23 Club, haunt of the more elegant spenders, was intolerant of poverty. Behind its mahogany bar, a mirror was studded with bank notes of many nations and every denomination. Exactly centered was a thousand dollar bill, a gold certificate, crisp, clean, unspent.
Jules Monroe joined Ken at the corner table facing the entrance. It was mid-afternon and the Club was filling with men and women of the city; the recognizable faces of well-known actors, authors, bankers, business men.
The boy, neatly dressed, dark curling hair above soft brown eyes, stood beside the dance director.
"Sit down," Jules said. The boy gingerly sat on the edge of the wall bench. Jules faced Ken.
"How are you?" he purred.
A cat—blinking yellow eyes; a lynx, yellow-eyed in a cavern.
"Meet my friend Jackie," he said. Then smiled: "This is Buddy. Jackie. By the way, are rumors true? I hear you are now known as the Flame."
"Lovely name." Ken inclined his head. "Charming idea, but it isn't my title yet."
