She didn’t turn to look; she just kept moving toward the door. Then the door was open and she walked out.

Corey sat there for a while, wondering if this was really a taproom floor. It seemed more like a slanting boat deck, the boat bouncing around in rough water. Corey tried to get up, couldn’t make it, tried again and kept trying. Finally he was on his feet and staggered toward the bar. He saw Nellie reaching for a double rye, and called to her, “Hey wait—we’re drinkin’ together.”

She waited while Corey lurched closer to the bar. She pointed to the double gin she’d ordered for him. In a solemn and slightly ceremonious way they lifted the glasses, clinked them together. Then instead of drinking, they stood holding the glasses.

Nellie said, “So what’s the toast? Who do we drink to?”

“The precinct,” Corey suggested. “The tried and true of the Thirty-seventh.”

“Why drink to them?”

“They preserve law and order. They protect the citizens.”

“From what?”

“From bingo games, that’s what. Them wicked bingo games.” Nellie thought it over for a moment. She said, “Tell you what. Let’s drink to Sally Sullivan.”

“And who the hell is Sally Sullivan?”

“The captain’s wife. The wife of the captain of the Thirty-seventh Precinct. And she’s also vice president of the Women’s Committee.”

“Committee for what?”

“To wipe out filth. Prevent immoral influences. They’ve had her on one of them local TV programs, the city give her an award. And she goes around to them lunches, makes speeches. Gets her picture on the woman’s page damn near every Sunday. Now I’ll tell you something else, if you care to hear it.”

“By all means,” Corey said politely, patiently. But he wished she’d hurry up with it so they could drink the toast. He gazed thirstily at the gin in the shot glass.

Nellie said, “This Sally Sullivan, she’s the one that Rafer’s been seein’.”

“The captain’s wife? With Rafer?”

“Whenever she gets the chance. I won’t tell you what they do. I mean, what she does. It would make you sick in your stomach.”

“Who tipped you?”

“Rafer himself. So you know I got it on good authority.”

“But Rafer’s your man. Why would he tell you a thing like that?”

“He was high,” Nellie said. “He was forty thousand feet up. On that mixture he drinks. Calls it California Clouds. Mixes it himself. A bottle of some cola drink, six aspirin tablets, two tablespoons of snuff. Puts it all together in a bowl and sips it from the spoon. In no time at all he’s up there. California Clouds.”

“Let’s drink to that,” Corey said. “Them clouds. And your man Rafer. Your cloud man Rafer.”