assured. Nervous. Straight fine lines on his forehead. Blue shadows beneath his eyes.
"When Jerry's the Earl," Howard said, "we'll give a show in Buckingham Palace, shan't we, Jerry?"
"Why not?" asked Jerry. His cheeks, Ken noticed, were pink, round, like—long ago—Frankie's.
"I must get out here," Ken said. The car stood at Forty-second Street and Broadway.
"Look me up," said Howard as Ken opened the door. "I'm at the Barrington again. Can't quit the old place. Jerry has your old room, that is—" Howard hesitated—"until … until—" The door slammed shut. Ken had closed it upon Howard's words. Rutgers' eyes were kindly.
"You look sorta peaked," Rutgers observed, grinning. "Come up and let me cook you a meal, Mr. Gracey," he said.
The lights changed. Ken watched the car glide on. Howard faintly waved. Ken stood motionless. His hand slipped into his trouser pocket. He felt crisp money, money he had earned. He began to cross the street. A cab, swiftly turning to the right, shot past. The driver cursed:
"Look where you're going, hop-head," he said. Ken did not hear the shouted words. He walked on, into the interlocking chain of traffic-bound cars.
Not even liquor was his friend, for, in the long process of self-immolation, liquor had ceased to play the part of a drug. The gin he continued to drink that evening thus did not stupefy him; it did not stimulate him. He walked conspicuously erect, on the balls of his feet, like an athlete about to spring into action.
He went toward the Yorkshire hotel, not quite seeing
