The girl shrieked again. This time she ran at Charlie, battering him with her small fists. They fell on him no harder than rain, but her voice was filled with fury.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” she yelled. “You goddamn son-of-a-bitch!”

Charlie pushed her away. She fell on the floor, her legs splayed out and her hair coming undone from its pins. She began to cry.

Tom looked down at the girl, then at Charlie. “Why you,” he said, and his fist sailed toward Charlie’s face. Charlie took it on the chin, his head rocking to the side. There was pain in his lip, and when he put his fingers to his mouth they came away red with blood.

Tom hit him again before he could think what to do. This time the blow was to his stomach. The wind went out of him, and he knocked over the glass of beer. It splashed on the floor, wetting the girl’s legs and making her renew her yells. He wished somebody would make her shut up. She was giving him a headache.

“Come on,” Tom was yelling at him. “Come on, you bastard.”

Charlie turned to face him. This time when Tom came at him, he hit back. His clenched fist met Tom’s face, and Tom staggered back. Now there was blood on his face too. He howled in pain and ran at Charlie.

Then they were on the floor, wrestling. Tom was on top of Charlie, trying to choke him. Then they were rolling, and Charlie smelled spilled beer and peanuts. He saw boots and high-heeled shoes, heard the clamor of voices.

Tom’s face was close to his now. He smelled his breath, foul and hot. He held Tom in his arms, pressing him against his chest. Tom, trying to get free, was bucking his hips back and forth, but Charlie was stronger, and he held tight.

“Let me go!” Tom yelled into Charlie’s face. “Let me go, you son-of-a-bitch!”

But Charlie couldn’t. He kept holding onto Tom, holding him in his arms and feeling him struggle. He wanted to tell him that it was all right. He wanted to press his face into Tom’s hair and smell soap. He wanted to go to sleep like this and never wake up.

Hudson stopped reading and looked at Ben. “That’s it?” Ben said. “What happens?”

“That’s where the manuscript ends,” Hudson answered.

“So he never tells Tom what he’s feeling?” Ben asked.

“No,” Hudson said. “He never does.”

Ben put his hands behind his head. “Which one do you think is Steinbeck?” he said.

“I don’t think it’s that clear-cut,” said Hudson. “I think it’s more metaphoric. Two men, unable to express themselves. Women coming between them. There are parallels.”

“It certainly sounds like Steinbeck,” Ben remarked. “The writing, I mean. Can you tell me where you got it?”