A hand on his shoulder. The voice brisk, cheerful. "Come now—the gutter is no place for a man of your caliber."
Lee grunted and rolled over. Someone who knew him evidently; someone echoing the myth of his "brilliance". "I said get the hell—" He opened an eye. If this was an old friend, the man had gone out of memory. Plump, cheerful, rosy-faced, well-cut clothes. A man with an air of confidence.
And something more.
It was the something more that stopped Lee from swinging at the man's plump chin after allowing himself to be lifted to his feet. The man looked critically into Lee's face as the latter swayed. He took a snowy handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped filth from Lee's face in the manner of one wiping the face of a child. "I think you need a drink, young fellow."
Lee grinned crookedly. "Now you're talkin'."
The plump man steered Lee down the street, around a corner, under a glittering marquee. An immaculate doorman glared with frosty eyes. His look of disgust partially sobered Lee. "Now wait a minute," Lee mumbled. After all, a man never lost all his pride.
He was drawing away, instinctively seeking shadows, when the doorman's eyes shifted to the plump man. They cleared instantly. He saluted, bowed, said "Good evening, Mr. Clifford."
"Good evening, John. We need a snifter or two of your excellent scotch."
"Certainly, sir." The doorman opened the portal as though the Secretary of State were honoring the Lotus Room with his presence.
Lee was busy marveling as they crossed the hotel lobby, brushing close to hastily drawn-back mink coats and formal clothes. It was certainly time for the bouncer to appear. But the hostess at the door of the Lotus Room—a blonde dream wearing something that resembled a pink cloud—gave the plump man a look Lee felt should have been reserved only for God.