Marajuana was cheap. And easy to smoke. Deep inhalation, smoke curling about in the lungs, and time blessedly stops. The gin then quickens the tempo of the heart. Living death. And the impelling realization that life in death is impossible. So what the hell.
"I'm high," said Feathers. He held an unlighted cigarette in his hand. Verne's eyes were glassy. The negro sat, knees crossed tailor-wise on the floor.
Ken had not smoked marajuana. When Kewpie entered, he was sitting in a chair. He rose.
"How are you?" Kewpie asked.
'Tine," said Ken.
"You had me worried."
The door was ajar. Connie stepped into the room.
"Come with me, fellow," she said. Her hand hooked into Ken's elbow. "Come on."
Kewpie said: "We're taking care of him."
"Shut your mouth, you lousy nance, or I'll tear you apart," she said.
"Who's that?" Verne said. "A woman?"
"You forget," Kewpie told Connie, "he's a lousy nance too."
The cab was black and white. She sat beside him.
"I love you," she said. "Do you hear me? I love you."
"Yes," said Ken.
"Yes what?"
"You love me?"
"I just told you so."
"You love me."
"Then you understand? You're not drunk?"
"I'm sobering up. I'm sorry."
