"I was. And had a wonderful time."
"Splendid," said Howard. He stopped abruptly. Ken glanced at him. Howard was visibly exasperated. The tense nervous quality of his mood was apparent.
"I'll have Leon call you when rehearsals start. Until then …" His voice trailed away. He turned swiftly and disappeared into the hurrying noonday crowds.
Ken felt the sharp twinge of pain as Howard quit him, there at the corner of Forty-second Street and Broadway. For many minutes, he stood alone in the crowded street. Faces, faces of strangers, tense faces, strained faces … then as the noon hour lengthened, the smiling expectant faces of lunch-going workers, eager for their midday freedom. Simple, very simple people.
He was not, could not be one of them. He stood apart. The past was dead. Howard, bitter, was estranged. He, who needed so desperately the guidance of a friend, had none. Slowly the significance of the disjointed scene in the agent's office became clear. He had been nervous, overeager; he had needed a drink. Sobriety had defeated him. Drunk he would not have signed the contract; he would have forced Leon to seek another engagement for him.
On Forty-third Street, a narrow doorway led to a hidden barroom, concealed between a taxi stand and a fruiterer's. He recalled the place. It was around the corner. He decided to suspend his will, to take a drink.
That afternoon, Ken succeeded in finding Jean Pond. The chorus girl was living across the Queensborough Bridge in Astoria. She hurried to New York at his urgent request. Over diluted old-fashioned cocktails they chatted,
