Lou said, “Ken—” and stopped. Then the three of them turned and started up the long, curving staircase that led to the upstairs rooms.
Malone sat in the Morris chair for several long minutes, wishing that he were dead. Nobody made a sound. He rubbed his hands over the soft leather and tried to tell himself that he was lucky, and talented, and successful.
But he didn’t care.
He closed his eyes at last, and took a deep breath.
Then he vanished.
16
Two hours passed, somehow. Bourbon and soda helped them pass, Malone discovered; he drank two highballs slowly, trying not to think about anything, and kept staring around at the walls of his apartment without really seeing anything. He felt terrible.
He made himself a third bourbon and soda and started in on it. Maybe this one would make him feel better. Maybe, he thought, he ought to break out the cigars and celebrate.
But there didn’t seem to be very much to celebrate, somehow.
He felt like a guinea pig being congratulated on having successfully resisted a germ during an experiment.