Butterfly Man. Lew Levenson

above the coast road. The ocean lay flat as a silken coverlet. Because Anita Rogers was a woman, he felt he could talk to her.

      "I'm not having as good a time as you think," he confided. "Did you ever hear of La Lowell?"

      "Who's she?"

      "He. A rich old man, who's made millions in oil and silver."

      "So that's the one you're living with?"

      "Yes."

      "You wouldn't do that now, would you, cutie?"

      The car rolled across the pavement to the beach.

      "What'd you mean by that crack?" he asked as he applied the brakes and switched off the lights.

      "Nothing you'd understand."

      "Say, what do I look like? Do I look dumb?"

      "Simple-minded." She laughed. "No—you're a kid, from the country … a sap."

      He suggested a walk along the beach. Just beyond a ​path down the palisade were rocks. She picked her way to a natural opening in the black cliff. The surf splashed and rolled between the beach stones on which they walked. In the darkness, they found a comfortable natural seat, a low, flat rock.

      "I've been most everywhere, kid," she said. "I thought I had you figured but I'm wrong."

      She lighted a cigarette.

      "What's this Lowell guy like?"

      "He's wonderfully generous. But I can't figure him the way you can't figure me."

      "So he's the one that's made you so shy. Tell me—you're not 'queer,' are you?"

      Ken's "No" was gruff and decisive.

      "Then put your arm around me, I'm chilly."

      He obeyed.

      "Haven't you got a drink with you?" she asked.

      He shook his head.

      "Then I'll have to get warm some other way."

      Her head fell on his shoulder. Her hair was fragrant with a musky scent, as the wind drove it in a caress against his cheek. His hand dropped over her shoulder, so that his fingers barely felt the curve of her breast.

      "I'm glad I found you," she said. "I know what's ailing you. You need a woman around once in a while. A goofy old gent like this papa of yours means no good to you."

      "How do you know?"

      "Mama's wise, little man. She's lived. And she hasn't been in Buddy Nolan's school for four hard weeks without guessing right once in a while."

      Ken's eyes followed the long line of foam.

      ​"It'd be a shame if you let popsy-wopsy change you over."

      "Why do you keep hammering at that sort of thing?"

      "Jimmy Smith. He told me you were being fatted for slaughter, that is, if you haven't taken the veil already."

      The phrase recalled Judge Wardell's remark. Ken had not understood what the Judge had meant when he boasted that he had "taken the veil."

      "Exactly what does that mean?" he asked Anita.

      "Letting your hair down, camping, and all the rest."

      "I don't get you."

      "I'm glad. Why, I even think you're a fall guy. Ain't it the truth?"

      "No."

      "Honey, I'm willing to save you. Not for these glad rags you wear, nor for the Rolls over there … but because nice little Nita liked you the minute she saw you."

      She straightened up. "I'm the kind of gal who isn't too proud to tell the truth. I was afraid of you because the gang had you bracketed as trade. I didn't want to get a cold turn-down. That's bad for the ego and I've got to have an inflated ego or I'm flat as a glass of stale beer."

      Her hand roamed over his smooth cheek to his hair.

      "Wanta dance with me? On the stage?"

      "I'd love to," Ken said.

      "It's okay with me, if you'll—" Her voice trailed away, but the implications concealed in its tone were plain. She placed a hand at the back of his head and drew his lips to hers.

      She kissed him. At that moment, the wind shifted … a damp, cold breeze cut across the water to the land. Ken shivered.

      ​"What's the matter? Cold?"

      "I'm tired, I guess."

      The color in her cheeks faded. Her eyes were dull brown. "Okay with me, pal. Let's go home."

      The Rolls-Royce raced back to Hollywood. They barely spoke again.

      At her door, he pressed her hand lightly.

      "I'm sorry," she said.

      "About what?"

      "Don't you know?" Her laugh pealed high. She turned and ran into the courtyard.

      For a moment he wanted to follow. He opened the door of the car, then closed it.

      "Good-night," he called. She did not answer.

      On the way home, he felt ill at ease. He placed the car in the garage very quietly. He descended steps to the bedroom entrance. He opened his door.

      A dim light burned. Silhouetted against it was the grotesque figure of Mr. Lowell. He was dressed in what appeared to be a dressing gown, but which was really a Japanese robe, the elaborately brocaded, fantastic, mediaeval costume of a Samurai. Heavy silks, rigid with the weight of overlaid panels of metallic cloth, lent a bizarre quality to the costume. Mr. Lowell, tall, his gray beard making him seem a figure out of Felician Rops, swayed.

      He pointed a finger at Ken. His mouth, half open, tried to speak human words. But he was so drunk that he could only bleat—a goat in the form of a man.

      Chapter V

       Table of Contents

      ​

      MR. LOWELL swayed again so that Ken thought he would fall.

      "Where have you been?" he finally cackled.

      "Out riding."

      "With whom?"

      "One of the school kids."

      Ken noticed that one of Mr. Lowell's eyes drooped. He was about to put an arm around the old man's shoulder and guide him to his own room, when Mr. Lowell snapped:

      "A girl?"

      "A girl," Ken replied, a note of defiance in his voice.

      Mr. Lowell wrested himself away from Ken's embrace. He uttered an inchoate sound and his face became black. Saliva drooled from his lips and over his beard.

      "I just happened to meet her in a drug store, that's all," Ken explained.

      "You talked to her—you!" Mr. Lowell's hand was doubled into a fist.

      "Why, of course, I did," Ken said, honestly.

      "About me!" shrilly cried Mr. Lowell.

      On the mantel was a French clock, a Watteau shepherdess holding aloft a disc, on the face of which toy hands of gold pointed to the minutes and hours. Mr. Lowell seized the disc from the hands of the shepherdess and hurled it at Ken.

      "You can't talk about me!" Mr. Lowell screamed.

      ​"No—I didn't," Ken lied. He stooped and picked up the shattered clock.

      "Get out of here! You belong back in Texas, in the fields, shovelling cow dung. You're not fit to come into my house. Look what you've done to it. Tracked mud into it—"

      "I've done nothing.