“Call me Sam. Not many people do. I travel around so much of the time, I don’t get a chance to make friends. These other fellas are pitchmen too; I run into them last night, over at the department store. Ed’s got a line of wind-proof cigarette lighters, Harry’s pushing a fabric cleaner. Pretty good line, too, but the people are so cold in New York. They just stare at you. I mean, it’s the biggest city in America, but I never did feel so alone.” He paused. “I suppose that sounds kind of sappy to you.”

“No,” Vy said. “It doesn’t.”

Sam Griffin beamed. “But I don’t see how you could ever feel alone—” He blushed. “What I mean to say—well, that’s me, putting my big foot in my mouth all the time! What I meant was, a pretty girl like you, there must be fellas . . .”

“Relax, Mr. Griffin. I know what you mean.”

He looked at her. “I think you do, you know? Nobody else does. These guys, Ed and Harry, they’re happy as pigs all the time. Got everything they need. No matter where they light, it’s home to them—and most pitchmen are that way.”

Vy straightened in the seat. They’re not men, she told herself, they’re customers. And it’s getting late.

“You want to go with me tonight?” she said suddenly, in a different tone.

Sam Griffin smiled. “I sure do.”

“It’s twenty-five dollars, hour limit,” Vy said.

A hurt look came into Sam Griffin’s eyes, as though she had disappointed him; but he did not stop smiling. “You want it now?” he said.

“No. Afterwards.”

“Anything you say, Vy.”

“Are you ready, or do you want to drink some more? If you do, I’ll have to charge.”

“I’m ready now,” he said. “Gosh, you got pretty hair. I don’t think I ever saw such pretty hair.”

“Go to the James Hotel,” Vy said, avoiding his eyes, shutting out his voice. “Register as Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. You know where the James Hotel is?”

“No.”

She gave him the address. “Remember, register as Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. They’ll take you to room 7. Lock the door and wait for me there.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Get a cab now. I’ll stay here fifteen minutes and come over.”

“Is it real?”

“What?”

“Your hair.”

“No. Dye.”

“Well, it’s pretty, anyway. It smells good.” Sam Griffin started out. Then he turned. “You’ll come, you promise?”

“Sure.”

The man who called himself Diamond stopped Sam Griffin and whispered loudly, “Griffin, listen, you ought to try the dark stuff. I’m not kiddin’. They really know how, things you never even thought of.”

“I’m okay,” Sam Griffin said. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, but you could come over to the joint with us afterwards. You ever had any dark stuff?”

“No, but—”