bemoaning the passing of good old days, tearing apart memories, slowly, roundly developing a deep mellow mood.
At six o'clock, the bartender refused to serve them with any more liquor.
"We can't afford to have you fall down in the street," he said. "The cops'll be closing us tight if you do."
They trod a spiral path on a heaving floor to the sidewalk. Jean, her face harder than ever, her eyes cold points of steel, held Ken erect.
"I'll get you a room at the Sandringham," she said. "I know the clerk."
A taxi took them to the tall theatrical hotel on Forty-eighth Street. Fresh air had steadied Ken. He wrote his name on the register, paid a week's rent in advance.
His room was pleasant enough. Jean, rapidly becoming sober, loosened Ken's clothing.
"I gotta go home to cook supper for Diana," she told him. "Poor girl … she's utterly helpless without me."
"What does Zigzag think of her?" Ken asked.
"He's jealous of course … but it won't be for long. Di, too, has winning ways."
Soon Ken was alone. The room ceased whirling. Walls, close to each other, held him like a vise. The window was open. He went to it, breathed air. Sandringham, Sandringham … where he lived … alone. A fly buzzed about his head. He swung a palm, trapped it, squeezed it dead. It clung, moist, to his hand.
He washed off the blood in the bathroom basin. His hair tossed senselessly about his head, his eyes were shot with pink; he needed a shave.
Suddenly a sound rose within him.
"To hell with everything!" he bellowed. "I'm crazy as a
