Borg and Shep Beery were playing cards on a table in the center of the room. Beery said: “That’s twice I’ve ruined my hand waiting for three hundred pinochle.” He got up and came over to the bed, grinned down at Kells.
“What do you care — you’re not going any place.”
Kells looked past Beery at Borg, looked around the room. He said: “What the hell is this?”
Borg was shuffling the cards. There was a bridge lamp beside the table and the light fell squarely on his fat, pale face. He shook his head sadly without looking up.
“Slug-nutty.”
Beery sat down on the edge of the bed, whispered confidentially: “This is the Palace, Gerry — you’re the Prince of Wales.
“I’m Mary, Queen of Snots.” Borg looked up, smiled complacently.
Kells closed his eyes, said: “Give me a drink.”
Beery reached over and took a tumbler, a big bottle from a stand beside the bed, poured a drink; Kells sat up slowly, carefully.
Beery handed him the glass. “You’ve been out like a light for a few days. We didn’t figure the hotel was a good spot right now so we moved you over here. It’s the Miramar, on Franklin.”