“You don’t mean it. Stay with me. You looked sick when you were talking about Vogel. My God! He’s twelve years older than you!”

For a long time, they argued back and forth passionately. Then she saw him glance up uneasily at the windows of the house, worrying about Carson Brody, she knew.

“He’s a real son of a bitch, your old buddy,” she exclaimed. “Where do you get off, telling me what to do? What’s good for me? You sat there all evening with a silly grin on your face while he vomited on everything.”

“He’s loyal!” Jake cried. “You wouldn’t know about that!”

“I’m going.”

“Go!”

“Jake?”

“He was right. Carson was right!” he shouted and suddenly bolted, leaping up the steps to the porch, coughing and sobbing. She saw him flying toward the stairs. She listened for several minutes as if to catch the last echo of his weeping. The grief was about her. What was the matter with her that she should stand there listening, hoping to hear more! Stand there, touched by joy as though she were increased, made substantial by the grief she’d caused. Yet something neutral in her stood aside; neither she nor Jake had felt as much as they’d pretended. She ran past the freak house, down to Hollywood Boulevard.

On Saturday night, the small bars were full. People promenaded, stopping now and then to gaze into shopwindows. From the streetcar window, Annie caught glimpses of the clothes displayed, all so new, so unobtainable. With her job, there was no possibility of saving up enough to buy anything; there wasn’t really enough to eat on. Her underwear was ragged, her shoes nearly gone.

At her stop, she looked for Johnnie’s car. But it wasn’t there. She dreaded being alone.

On impulse she telephoned James St. Vincent before she went up to her room. The woman who answered—Annie assumed it was one of the two who’d been at the dining table that evening—said curtly that Mr. St. Vincent was in Palm Springs for an indefinite stay.

Just after midnight, as Annie was trying to concentrate on Man’s Fate, Johnnie showed up, drunk and twirling his toupee. He was carrying a paper bag from which he first took six grapefruit, then a glass orange-juice squeezer. She watched him listlessly, grateful that he was there but too desolate to talk to him.

“Here I worry about you so! You’ve just deserted your poor old Johnnie.” He hacked away at the grapefruit with a pocketknife until he’d managed to cut them into ragged sections. Then, grunting with effort, his toupee askew, he squeezed. He grabbed a glass and presented her with the results of his efforts, kicking away a rind near his foot.

“California!” she exclaimed.

“Shut up, Annie-Fannie. Drink it.”