He climbed the stairs.
As he crossed the corridor, he made a hasty decision. The only way out, he concluded, was to go to her unexpectedly, catch her when she was off balance, take her by storm, love her plenty, get it over with.
The odor of the corridor revived sensations of the night before. Here was her door. On the other side, a shabby room, a miserable bed. Her body lay there on that bed, her familiar body drawn fine by ceaseless rehearsing. She would be sleeping. He would wake her. She would call, "Who's there?" and he would reply, "Ken," and she would admit him.
With knuckles folded, he lifted his hand to rap.
The blurred voice of Ed Feinberg came indistinctly through the thin wood. "Don't go drinking any more of that gin, doll," the agent was saying. "You can't see where I am now. I'm here, doll, on this chair. That's it. Easy now … easy … you'll break the chair in two. Here … I'll take the glass. There … Mm, but you're pretty … there."
"Poppa," he heard Anita murmur, "my Eddie, poppa, aw poppa … one teenie, weenie one more."
Fingers held in his ears, Ken fled from the corridor and down the stairs.
A glazed lamp … a narrow door. Ken, head low, moved straight ahead, walking until he should tire himself out. A Mexican, slant eyes betraying his partially oriental blood, brushed Ken's elbow. Dark street, another glazed lamp, a man standing against the wall urinating.
Ken moved on. A pawn shop, a farmacia, another street.
He could feel his young feet aching. He stopped. If he
