She heard that McKay had been pitched out by the members of his band, that all his money was gone, that he was living like a vagabond. She felt pity for him, and above all a feeling of sadness for what might have been. But she never made any attempt to get in touch with him. That would reopen old wounds, she thought.

But at night as she fell asleep, she thought of him, and remembered his gentle hands tenderly caressing her.…

6

6

The blond, white-faced young man named Bob McKay lay sprawled out on the cell cot with his arms outstretched above his head and one foot dangling over the side so that his heel rested on the floor. His lips were parted, permitting the breath to come through his teeth with a low, hissing sound. His eyelids were not quite closed, and through the narrow slits the bloodshot corneas showed, giving him a ghastly, deathlike appearance.

At first he did not feel the Mexican’s hand on his arm, but gradually the pressure of the man’s grip and the force with which he shook him began to penetrate through his deadened consciousness.

“Huh? What?” McKay mumbled fuzzily.

The Mex said, “Hey, you don’t want no coffee? Come on, hombre, you look like you goin’ to die. Por dios, drink some coffee, yes?”

McKay looked up wearily from the cot at the brown face of the Mexican who stood over him with the tin cup in his hand. He turned his head slowly, surveying the cell and learning from slow impressions where he was. The other Mexican sitting on the cot near the opposite wall laughed loudly as he watched the growing bewilderment in McKay’s eyes.

“Boy,” he said happily. “You musta’ had some load on, man.”

“Yeah,” said the Mexican holding the cup. “He had a load on, all right. I guess he don’t feel so good now.” The Mex grinned down at McKay. “Here. Ya better drink this coffee.”

McKay raised himself on one elbow. His head throbbed wildly and shooting pains went through his chest. His nose and mouth felt numb.

“Here,” the Mex said gently.

He put the cup in McKay’s hand. The hand shook a little. McKay drank the hot, black liquid. It stung his mouth and throat, but it quickly made his numbed senses return to life.

“Thanks,” he said gratefully after he had taken several swallows.

The Mexican shrugged. “Por nada. It’s all right. Maybe you can do the same for me someday, huh?” He laughed loudly at his own feeble joke.

Drinking slowly but with growing appetite, McKay finished the rest of the coffee while the two Mexicans looked on in amusement. When he had finished, he turned and sat with both feet on the floor, cradling his aching head in his hands.

“You okay now?”

“Better,” McKay said thickly. He looked up. “This the downtown can?”