He started the engine and drove out of Central Park, down Second Avenue.
She said, “Go along the river. It’s nice there.”
He turned left when he could and came out at Bellevue Hospital. They drove with the traffic as far as the Williamsburg Bridge, then Duffy spun the wheel and they headed East.
They got back to his apartment just as the evening sun was dropping behind the roofs, throwing long, starved shadows.
They left the Buick at the kerb and walked up the stairs together. Duffy said, “It seems a mighty long time since I had my last drink.”
“How about putting on the glad rags and taking me out?” she asked.
He put his hand on her back and pushed her a little. “These stairs are hell, ain’t they? Sure, we’ll go places, but I want Gleason first.”
He opened the door of the apartment and they walked in together. Then Duffy said, “Well…”
The room was a complete shambles. The furniture was overturned, drawers had been jerked out and left piled on the floor, the contents strewn over the carpet. The overstuffed furniture had been ripped to pieces and the stuffing dumped in piles. Pictures had been taken down from the walls and were lying with their backs cut. A tornado had certainly hit that room.
Duffy said gently, “Gleason trying to save himself some dough.”