Hollywood was quiet. At Vine Street and the Boulevard, an all-night drug store was open. Ken pulled up at the curb and entered.
At the fountain, he ordered a bromo-seltzer. He was decidedly tight now. That was why his ideas were so muddled, why he couldn't reasonably explain his flight from Star-ridge to Hollywood.
"It's fate, that's what it is," he heard a woman's low-pitched voice and felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. Anita Rogers stood beside him.
"Hello," he greeted her. "Have a soda on me?"
"No, thanks."
"What brought you out so late?"
"A mad desire to find you, sweetie."
"How'd you know I'd be here?"
"I didn't. I wanted to meet someone I knew; and this seemed the most likely place. It's so all-fired lonesome living by myself." She sniffed. "You've been nipping, haven't you?"
"Party."
"Where?"
"Star-ridge. Awfully dull."
"You'd better not hit it up so much. It'll ruin your dancing."
He looked at her more closely. She was prettier than most girls, not fleshy, rather slim, with brown hair, understanding eyes and a quiet smile.
"Say," she said suddenly, "can you take me for a breath of air? Have you got a car?"
"Sure. Where shall we go?"
"Let's go down to the beach, shall we?"
"Okay."
