white canyon of masonry. Faces of The City poured through silent as fish, stained with vile addictions and insect lusts. The lighted cafe was a diving bell, cable broken, settling into black depths.The Sailor was polishing his nails on the lapels of his glen plaid suit. He whistled a little tune through his shiny, yellow teeth.When he moved an effluvia of mold drifted out of his clothes, a musty smell of deserted locker rooms. He studied his nails with phosphorescent intensity.“Good thing here, Fats. I can deliver twenty. Need an advance of course.”“On spec?”“So I don’t have the twenty eggs in my pocket. I tell you it’s jellied consomme. One little whoops and a push.” The Sailor looked at his nails as if he were studying a chart. “You know I always deliver.”“Make it thirty. And a ten tube advance. This time tomorrow.”“Need a tube now, Fats.”“Take a walk, you’ll get one.”The Sailor drifted down into the Plaza. A street boy was shoving a newspaper in the Sailor’s face to cover his hand on the Sailor’s pen. The Sailor walked on. He pulled the pen out and broke it like a nut in his thick, fibrous, pink fingers. He pulled out a lead tube. He cut one end of the tube with a little curved knife. A black mist poured out and hung in the air like boiling fur. The Sailor’s face dissolved. His mouth undulated forward on a long tube and sucked in the black fuzz, vibrating in supersonic peristalsis disap­peared in a silent, pink explosion. His face came back