accurately. It was nearly eleven o'clock; he vaguely considered going to his room, siting there with a gin bottle and conducting an experiment. He would drink gin, nothing else, noting his sensations at each drink, until he should sink into numb unconsciousness.
He was surprised when a swarthy little fellow darted out of shadows, hands outstretched in greeting.
"I'm Harry Hayes," he said, smiling. "Remember me?"
Ken didn't know him. "You visited me with Howard Vee a long time ago. And I used to drop in at the Barrington. How are you?"
From the past returned a fragmentary memory, Hayes singing his lyrics … he was the famous writer of sophisticated songs. "I've been wondering what happened to you," Hayes was saying.
"I wish I knew," Ken replied.
"We could use you in our next show."
"I haven't danced in ages. Don't wanta dance right now."
Hayes grinned. "I'm betting you'll dance—that is, if you find time to sober up."
"Some fun, eh, baby?" Ken laughed foolishly.
"Come on up to my apartment. Some friends are coming over—all quite respectable, but there'll be lots to drink. You're welcome to get as potted as you please."
Plastic as his mood, Ken yielded. The money in his pocket scorched his fingers as he touched it, red flush of shame in the thought of what he had done, chill terror at the realization that he had really seen Howard—a man of living flesh. Haze drifting across his mind obscured the significance of the day's happenings. He might have dreamed the naked horror of the photographer's studio, the dark
