The heat was still inside him, and the aching between his legs was almost unbearable. As he lay there, he thought of the girl, Ella, and of all the other Ellas in his life. The first had been a Jewish girl named Jeaness. She was fourteen years old, and he’d sat beside her every day for a whole semester, watching the sun on her legs. They were beautiful legs, with a coating of tan gold on them. He used to think that one could scrape the gold away with a knife. And the Jewish girl, unlike the others, obviously had breasts. They were small but pointed and high, and she always wore a locket which fell between them and accentuated them. He’d been afraid, then, to speak to her, because he knew how ugly he was, how repellent all the pimples and blackheads that covered his face were. But then had come the evening of the big dance, and he’d been more afraid to stay at home, alone, thinking of it; so he’d put powder on his face, and ointments, and he’d gone. And when he’d worked up the courage to ask for a dance, Jeaness had said (and the words rang clear in his mind): “Who let you in?”

Later, when the pimples had disappeared magically, and he’d found ways of gaining popularity, he met the little French girl, Steffie. She was beautiful and desired by all the boys, but now he was adept at campaigns—all sorts of campaigns—and he won an evening with her. It went perfectly, he recalled: perfectly. The dinner at Chapeau Rouge, the drive down Sunset to the beach, along the beach to Malibu, up into the lonely and deserted hills. And after he’d kissed her and felt her breasts and put his hand upon her, she’d told him that she wanted him.

He stubbed the cigarette out in the glass ashtray and tried not to think of these forgotten things.

He tried not to remember how, suddenly, he’d been unable to take Steffie, how she’d wept and begged him, and how he could only say, “I can’t, I can’t . . .”

Or how he’d taken her home and then driven all the way to Tijuana, three hundred miles distant, and paid the first pimp and stayed with a scrawny, stupid Mexican girl all night.

It had always been that way.

And now, again, because he’d wanted to, he’d been unable; and the pain of it filled him.

He got off the bed quietly and walked with great care out into the hallway.

He stopped at number 22, and knocked softly.

“Yes?”

He did not answer, but knocked again.

“Who is it?”

“Adam Cramer,” he said. “Your neighbor.”

There was a long pause; then: “What do you want?”

“A cup of coffee, a little conversation.”