She half-pushed the lumbering Ray out the door. The others left right behind him. Suddenly Kinsman was alone in the shabby little room with Diane.
"I guess I ought to go, too," Kinsman said, his insides shaking now that the danger had passed. Or was it the 15 thought of going back home?
"Where?" Diane asked.
"Back in the city . . . Russian Hill."
"God, you are Establishment!"
"Born with a silver spoon in my ear. To the manner born. Rich or poor, it pays to have money. Let 'em eat cake. Or was it coke?"
"You're very drunk."
"How can you tell?"
"For one thing, your feet are standing still but the rest of you is swaying like a tree in a typhoon."
"I am drunk with your beauty . . . and a ton and a half of beer."
Diane laughed. "I can believe the second one."
"The toilet's in there, isn't it?"
"You mean you haven't . . . ?"
Kinsman walked past her, carefully. "Nobody owns beer, you know. You merely rent it."
It was a narrow cubicle with an old-fashioned tub that stood on four rusted swans; the toilet was equally ancient. No roaches in sight. No sink. He bent over the tub and splashed cold water on his face, then patted it dry with a limp towel hanging on the back of the door.
He came out and saw Diane still standing in the middle of the room, eyeing him quizzically.
"How do you get a cab around here?" he asked,
"You don't. Not at this hour. No trains or buses, either."
"I'm stuck here?"
Diane nodded.
"A fate worse than death," he muttered.
The room's furnishings consisted of a bookcase crammed with sheet music and a few paperbacks, the water bed, a Formica-topped table with two battered wooden chairs that did not match, the water bed, a pile of books in the corner by the windows, a few colorful pillows strewn across the floor here and there, the water bed, two guitars, a sink and small stove with some cabinets above them, and the water bed.
"We can share the bed," Diane said.
He felt his face turn red. "Are your intentions honor- able?"
She grinned at him. "The condition you're in, we'll both be safe enough."
