beside Paul. They smiled at each other but neither said a word. In fact the whole room was a dead silence.
"I'll sing you a number if someone will play for me," screamed Dusty, trying to break the tenseness … He walked over to the piano. "Come on, Gene … Play for me … whore."
Claude came into the room.
"I'm in no condition to play …" cried Gene. "But Claude is … Play for Dusty … Claude."
Claude tried to grin … "All right … what's it going to be?"
"Sing something dirty, honey … I'm feeling nasty … and evil …" screamed someone.
"Come on, Jenny Lind … start belching," cried a high voice.
"Okay … you faggots … Be quiet … The golden throat is going to sing for you." He shook the long net skirt that fell over a slip of green satin. Taking the long handkerchief from under a jewel studded belt, he waved it at the group. Everyone laughed again. "Quiet …" he bellowed, "or I'll shove these tits right down your throats."
"Would that be bad," screamed another.
"Well … there are better things," cried Dusty.
Paul looked at Gaylord. "Are you all right, Gay?" he asked.
"Yes … are you?"
"I am now …"
Claude began to play a fast number and Dusty screamed out words. Not the words written for the song but his own version, which was quite different.
"Gay … let's go. Let's go to my apartment," whispered Paul.
"I should get back to the hotel."
"Later … huh? But I want you to see my place."
"I'd like to see your place."
Dusty's loud singing filled the room. His hand ran through Claude's hair, down over his shoulders. Claude laughed back at him, his hands flying over the keyboard in a wild and reckless manner.
Dusty was drunk and the vile words poured forth, getting louder and more insulting … The sheer material in his hand was now nothing but long strips of silk which he still waved furiously. More high shrill voices, wild screams, followed by a gaunt slap that came
