"Why?" Ken asked naively.
"Look around," said Bud. "Everyone knows everyone else. Jackie's a true friend. The boys and girls come to her with their problems and their troubles. She solves everything by serving gin. If you can pay—great. If you can't—great.
"That's Hal Romans, over there. He's a psychic, on the side. Odd chap, a little demented perhaps, but true. That's Jean Duval, the little fellow—stealing an hour from his studio—he is an artistic publicity man, catering to the more decadent movie stars.
"The girl in the center, Kay Regan—she's a young lawyer. She doesn't practise because she spends too much time worrying about the fate which made her a woman instead of a man. I call her a bi-sex, flat-feet, the result of a lover who beat her, but she's convinced she was born wrong—so what can poor Buddy do?
"That stringy blonde next to her would be quite pretty if she'd bathe regularly. She hails from up North where she got religion. She preached the Four-Square Gospel for Aimee until she was thrown out of the Temple for using the dressing rooms for odd purposes."
"You mean she's queer?"
"Divinely so, dearie," said Buddy, and rubbed the moonstone against his cheek. "Jackie, for heaven's sake, bring us some gin and ginger ale."
At six thirty, Ken drove the Rolls into the garage. Kari greeted him at the patio entrance.
"Missee Lowell waits for you in the music room," he said.
The gin had been fuming in Ken's head. He had driven
