Pushed the door open, kicked the book away, and let the automatic closer snap the lock. He took off a seersucker jacket that had flapped around his slatty shoulders. He picked up the book and said, "Jesus Christ. I thought I explained quantum mechanics to you ten years ago!" He went through my bedroom to the bathroom. A firm, pounding stream. He kicked the toilet handle, missed, kicked again—and it flushed resentfully. His jacket had fallen to the floor. When he returned, he kicked that. It rose in the air and he caught it. He whipped off his shirt.
"Buy me a drink," he said.
"What?"
"Scotch and soda."
"Order it yourself—and order me a coffee."
He went to the phone. I cut one more line, and then tidied up the bridge table, stacking things so I could start in quickly where I had left off.
"I didn't know you were in town," I said.
"I didn't know you were. Took a chance. I had to see a gook who lives near here—so I stopped in. How's Ricky? Recovered now?"
"Swell."
"What you down for? Cheating?"