He must not, he knew, return to New York. New York, magnificent New York, was forbidden soil. He must not return, must not sober up, must not be able to go to the theatre tomorrow night.
He must never see Howard again. He must never weakly betray his good fine friend. He must quit the show, quit New York.
Little Neck … Flushing, quiet in the hush of Sunday night. He must not be able to dance again for Howard Vee.
"Driver," he called, "close the window. It's chilly."
"I know it is," said the man as he snapped shut the pane of glass that separated him from his passenger.
Ken smiled. Easy now, easy to escape. His leg, his good right leg, shot up at an odd angle from its pivoting joint. The toe snapped against the glass, the foot crashed through, the jagged edge penetrated firm flesh of his shank, flesh of his leg, flesh upon which he danced.
It pained a little. Blood was warm. He wouldn't dance for a time. Pain increased. A pulsating throb. Warm blood. He was cold. He fainted.
