"I feel like shit," she said. She had exchanged her gypsy outfit for a raw silk kimono in a lush shade of green with butterflies embroidered on the back and sleeves. Her arms were so thin she looked like a praying mantis, her green eyes aglitter.

"When are you due back at St. Terry's?" I asked.

She paused to blow her nose, not wanting to screw up her high. "Who knows?" she said, glumly. "Tonight, I guess. At least I'll have a chance to pack some of my own clothes to take with me. Shit, I ended up on the psycho ward with nothing."

"Why do you do this stuff Kitty? You're playing right into Kleinert's hands."

"Terrific. I didn't know you came up here to lecture me."

"I came up to search Bobby's room. I'm looking for the little red address book he asked you about last Tuesday. I don't suppose you have any idea where it might be."

"Nope." She bent over, using a rolled-up dollar bill like a straw, her nostril forming a little vacuum cleaner. I watched the coke fly up her nose, like a magic trick.

"Can you think who he might have given it to?"

"Nuh-un." She sat back on the bed, pinching her nose shut. She wet her index finger and cleaned the surface of the mirror, running her fingertip across her gums then, like a remedy for teething pains. She reached for her wineglass and settled back against the bed pillows, lighting a cigarette.

"God, that's great," I said. "You're tagging all the bases today. Do a little coke, knock back some wine, cigarettes. They're going to have to run you through Detox before you hit Three South again." I knew I was baiting her, but she got on my nerves and I was spoiling for a fight, which I suspected would feel better than .grief.

"Fuck you," she said, bored.

"'Mind if I sit down?" I asked.

She gestured permission and I perched on the edge of the bed, looking around with interest.

"What happened to your stash?" I asked.

"What stash?"

"The one you kept in there," I said, indicating the bed table drawer.

She stared. "I never kept a stash in there."

I loved the little note of righteous indignation. "That's funny," I said. "I saw Dr. Kleinert pull a whole Ziploc bag full of pills out of there."

"When?" she said in disbelief.

"Monday night when they carted you away. Quaaludes, Placidyls, Tuinals, the works." Actually, I didn't really believe the pills were hers, but I was curious to hear what she had to say.

She stared at me for a moment more, then eased out a mouthful of smoke, which she neatly channeled up her nose. "I don't do any of those," she said.

"What'd you take Monday night?"

"Valium. Prescription."

"Dr. Kleinert gave you a prescription for Valium?" I asked.