"I did." The dark skinned youth was thin, hollow-cheeked, the cuff of a trouser leg torn.
"And he can do the black bottom quite nicely," Verne winked.
On a table in the center of the room was a china bowl. Verne poured gin into it, two bottles of clear liquid, then heavy orange juice from a milk bottle.
"Who's this?" Feathers asked, pointing to Ken.
"My buddy."
"I get it. Marge, have you got the makings?"
"Marge has the divine afflatus, I have the gin. Together we shall seek heaven."
"Dear me," said Feathers. "I'm afraid I forgot my compact. Margie, do you use lavender rouge? I've often wondered."
"I smoke marajuana," said Marge.
"I know. But do you eat?"
"Permit me, Feathers," Verne said. "Me, a Baudelairean, to quote one the early free verse writers of the horrible nineteen-teens—Margie is now eating ham and eggs in the Harlem of your sexuality."
"Not mine," said Feathers.
"I smoke marajuana," Marge repeated.
Lights low, curtains drawn. The bare floor softened by a pillow. Ken dipped a cup into the bowl.
"I don't like orange juice," he said, and spat the liquor out. A bottle touched his palm.
Knock at the door. Verne opened. Grizzled, gray-hair, matted.
"Hello, Captain," Verne said. "You sent a sliver of shivers down my back. Who's with you?"
