Butterfly Man. Lew Levenson

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      "If you do—" Gregg continued, "stay with La." Gregg ​caught one of Ken's hands in his own. "We'll shake on it, shall we?"

      Ken smiled. "Yes," he said.

      It was just twelve when Ken guided the Rolls down the steep grade toward Glendale. As he reached the boulevard, he took a deep breath of the fresh night air. Thank God, he was out of the house.

      Exactly what had happened, he wasn't sure. He had sat talking with Gregg for a time. They had invaded the house for a drink. Ken had told Gregg he would go below and get Kari to mix some highballs.

      On the stairs sat Mr. Crofton and Gaston Powers. They were drunk and giggled at the sight of Ken leading Gregg to the kitchen.

      No one was there. Kari, they decided, had gone to bed. Ken opened innumerable cupboards and ransacked the ice box in a search for a drink. He was about to apologize for his inability to find anything, when Gregg asked him not to bother.

      "I don't need another drink," he said. "I'm glad there isn't any more. I've talked truth. We mustn't talk truth. It's dangerous."

      He smiled. "I like you, Kenneth," he said. "When I first saw you, I thought you were just another Lowell type. But you're not.

      "La, you know, isn't especially good for everyone. He's like a diet of caviar, grouse and plum pudding. You must gain perspective, be amused and amusing if you'd survive. And I'd like to see you survive."

      Kenneth rather liked the poet. He wasn't annoying. He seemed sincere.

      ​"La Lowell is high priestess of a curious cult, Kenneth … a great man—in his way. He weaves enchantments, casts spells, delivers incantations. One must be very young or very strong to resist him. And never weak. He is a curious mixture—devil and god. No ordinary mortal can combat him."

      "You've got me wrong, Gregg," Ken said. "I'm not a weak one."

      "I hope not—" Gregg's eyes sparkled. "At least be strong enough to be practical. Let him pay you well, as he has paid many others … Pierre, for instance."

      "Did he put Pierre in business?"

      "Brought him from Paris."

      For a moment, Kenneth felt a curious resentment against Mr. Lowell, as if Pierre Fortand had no right to be in Star-ridge now that he was there. He had been sitting on the kitchen table. He rose.

      "Where are you going?" Gregg asked.

      "To find Kari. I need a drink." He did not consider why he went downstairs, instead of up. This he did, however, passing his own bedroom and going straight to Mr. Lowell's.

      He did not knock. He opened the door of the dressing room.

      "Who's that?" cried a voice. Pierre Fortand slammed an inner door. Ken stood his ground. The inner door opened. Ken thought he saw Mr. Lowell lying on the bed. Fortand came into the dressing room.

      "He's a little drunk. Passed out, I think. I'm taking care of him."

      "Can I help?"

      "No. And get out of here and stay out—do you hear?"

      ​Hollywood was quiet. At Vine Street and the Boulevard, an all-night drug store was open. Ken pulled up at the curb and entered.

      At the fountain, he ordered a bromo-seltzer. He was decidedly tight now. That was why his ideas were so muddled, why he couldn't reasonably explain his flight from Star-ridge to Hollywood.

      "It's fate, that's what it is," he heard a woman's low-pitched voice and felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. Anita Rogers stood beside him.

      "Hello," he greeted her. "Have a soda on me?"

      "No, thanks."

      "What brought you out so late?"

      "A mad desire to find you, sweetie."

      "How'd you know I'd be here?"

      "I didn't. I wanted to meet someone I knew; and this seemed the most likely place. It's so all-fired lonesome living by myself." She sniffed. "You've been nipping, haven't you?"

      "Party."

      "Where?"

      "Star-ridge. Awfully dull."

      "You'd better not hit it up so much. It'll ruin your dancing."

      He looked at her more closely. She was prettier than most girls, not fleshy, rather slim, with brown hair, understanding eyes and a quiet smile.

      "Say," she said suddenly, "can you take me for a breath of air? Have you got a car?"

      "Sure. Where shall we go?"

      "Let's go down to the beach, shall we?"

      "Okay."

      ​She marvelled at the Rolls-Royce. I used to dream I d ride in one of those things one of these days. Gee, it's swell to be rich."

      "Meaning me?"

      "Listen, you got plenty."

      "I don't own a cent. Everything I have, even my clothes, belongs to someone else; I haven't even earned the money in my pocket. A Jap house boy puts twenty dollars in my pants every morning."

      "Brother," she begged, "where is that Jap? He can put twenty dollars in my pants any time. Why, I'm living on twenty bucks a month so's I can buy me a new dance routine."

      "You been on the stage?"

      "If you call it that. I was in small-time vaudeville for a while. I slipped one day on a banana peel and nine whiskey sours; and I haven't had a job since."

      "Where do you live?"

      "In a two-by-four down around Vermont."

      "Going back on the stage?"

      "Yes, when you stop cross-examining me and my back kicks come back and I can afford some new costumes and when I find a new partner as good as you are."

      "I'll work with you."

      "You mean that, babe? Hm—no you won't. I know your kind."

      "My kind—?" Ken stole a sidelong glance at her.

      "You're in the dough, kid. Keep outa vaudeville. It's only heartbreaks, hot cakes and cold hotel rooms."

      "But maybe we could form a big-time team," Ken said. "You have experience. I've got long legs."

      "No, no—not you."

      ​"Why not?"

      "I don't want to spoil you, child."

      All the way to Santa Monica Ken argued with her. "When you're sober, you'll realize a combination of you and me'd be impossible. You're a fresh youngster—I'm an old bat."

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