They went up La Brea to Franklin, over Franklin to Cahuenga, up Cahuenga and Irish to Cullen’s house.
Kells’ side and leg had become numb. He got out of the car as quickly as he could, limped up the steps. Cullen answered the first ring, stood in the doorway looking elaborately disgusted, said: “Again?”
Kells said: “Give me a hand, Willie. Hurry up.” He started back down the steps.
“No! God damn you and your jams!”
Kells turned and stared at Cullen expressionlessly, and then he went on down the steps. Cullen followed him, muttering; they got Dickinson out of the car, carried him up into the house.
Cullen was breathing heavily. He asked: “Why the hell don’t you take him to the Receiving Hospital?”
“I’ve been mixed up in five shootings in the last thirty-two hours.” Kells went to the telephone, grinned over his shoulder at Cullen. “It’s like old times — one more and they’ll hang me on principle.”
“Haven’t you got any other friends? This place was lousy with coppers yesterday.”
“Wha’s the matter, darling?”
Kells and Cullen turned, looked at the stairway. Eileen, Coin’s girl, was standing halfway down. She swayed back and forth, put her hand unsteadily on the banister. She was very drunk. She was naked.