Ken found Anita sprawled in a chair in her bedroom. A gin bottle lay on the floor. It was empty.
"Why did you do it?" he asked.
Her eyes were shiningly glazed. Back of her head, an electric sign blinked through the window pane. The rain had stopped.
"Why did you do it?" he begged.
"I hate myself," she muttered. "I'm no good. And I love you."
He kneeled and put his head in her lap. The tangy faded perfume of her rose into his nostrils. He kissed her hand.
"I know you do," he said. "I'm not angry because of this. It doesn't matter."
"We'll ruin each other." She shook her head. "I'm a slut. You're a—"
"I'm not—but I'm not—" he protested.
She wriggled to her feet. "Let's drink." A corner of her mouth rose in an ugly smile. "We might as well, after what we've done to each other."
"Don't drink. Tomorrow we must go on."
"Not me," she said as she reached for the telephone. "Bell captain, please …" To him: "I'm through here. I'm finished. Send up another bottle of High and Dry and some ginger ale."
She replaced the receiver on the hook. She tottered to the bed. "You'll see." She flung herself face forward, then rolled over. She caught his hand and held it for a long time.
"Buster," she said softly and at last, "you were a nice boy. A bad old man tried to get you but sly little Nita out-foxed him. I'm a hooker, kiddie boy, a born hustler. Don't you forget that—don't you forget it."
