prostitution of his body. He might have dreamed the automaton Howard, Howard gibbering foolishly in praise or the vapid object of his adoration. But he had not dreamed. He had been brutally awake.
To forget, he needed more drink. 'Tm thirsty," he told Hayes.
"Scotch, rye, bourbon, brandy; take your choice," Hayes said as the taxi bore them uptown.
"Til take gin," Ken muttered.
The pent house seemed crowded with people. Old, young, male, female, faces, a pink mass, suffused with blotches of black and white, blond hair, black hair, gray hair. Not people; a pink curtain, held before his eyes.
It was hot indoors. On the terrace, green shrubs, potted plants and little tables over which striped umbrellas stood. A long buffet supper. Caviar, cheeses, salads.
"What is it?" Ken asked. "Your birthday?"
"No. This goes on all the time. I feed the open mouths of America. I have a standing order for food at Reubens. I support three bootleggers and at least four waiters. Til die broke … the only way to die."
"Tm ready for death right now," Ken said.
In a mysterious manner a twenty-dollar bill found its way into his hand.
"I didn't mean that," Ken said. "Look here." He dug his hand into his pocket and drew forth some dirty bills.
"Take 'em," Ken said, pushing the money into Hayes' hand. Hayes shoved the bills into Ken's coat pocket.
"Take a drink," the lyricist advised. He poured brandy into a wide mouthed glass. Ken drank. The brandy raced into his stomach. Hayes disappeared. Ken drank again and
