Then the picture got hazy. They stood there at the bar, and the glasses were filled and emptied and filled again. It went on and on like that, and then they were walking out of Dugan’s Den. Or rather, she was trying to keep him on his feet while he staggered toward the door. Then she helped him into the car and said, “Now you’re really drunk.” His head was down and he tried to lift it to look at her. But he couldn’t. And he couldn’t say anything.
The pictures were fading away but he managed to get a vague impression of the car coming to a stop, the weaving and stumbling as she helped him up some steps and through a doorway. He didn’t know what house it was, he didn’t know what room he was in now. For just the fraction of an instant he caught a flash of Loretta sitting on a sofa and watching him as he staggered across a room. Then everything was black and it stayed black. He buried his head deeper in the pillow and thought, The hell with it, in the morning you’ll find out where you are. But just then he felt the hand on his thigh.
My God, he thought, she’s in the bed with me.
He tried to pull way from the hand. An arm circled his middle and drew him closer to the warm softness of a woman.
“Come on,” the woman said. Her voice was languid. “Come on,” she said sleepily.
Again he tried to pull away. But now her grip was tighter.
“You hear me?” Her voice was louder. “I said come on.”
“No,” he mumbled. “Let go of me.”
“What? What’s that?”
“You hear me. Just keep away. Go back to sleep.”