At Ferris's, Ken met Verne Dennett. Chance brought them together, the desire for a cup of coffee on the part of Verne, Ken's need of a companion. Ferris's was crowded. The headwaiter seated Ken at the narrow tile-topped table opposite the hollow-cheeked youth whose pallor was accentuated by deep purplish circles beneath his eyes. Black hair fell to his black brows.
Ken was drunk. He had been drunk ever since he had tasted that first mouthful of alcohol. For hours, he had wanted to cry out, to proclaim the glorious news that he was again alive.
"I'm drunk," he told Verne.
"And I'm a poet," the other said. "Name Verne Dennett."
"Can you make a good rhyme about a bad boy?"
"You're not really bad," Verne said.
"I'm awful," Ken winked. "Too awful. I—" He whispered loudly across the table.
"Tsh—" Verne said. "You lack taste, dear one. You are devoid of the recherché. You need someone to take you home."
"Yes—take me home," Ken pleaded.
"Drink coffee first."
Warm coffee and a hand leading him out of Ferris's past knowing eyes, lips rouged over cynical smiles. A voice slanted: "Verne Dennett's sleeping again." And others laughed.
Verne Dennett called himself the American Baudelaire.
"My favorite mood is green. My favorite drink is absinthe. And I believe definitely in onomatopoeia."
"Pour me some gin," Ken said.
