“Tapkow, to me you are dead.”
And so it snapped. He didn’t answer, he hardly seemed to react, but when he got up and went to the window, he walked but he was not there any more. And then he found his hardness again, as if it had never left him, the old Benny Tapkow, standing the way he had stood all the other times he had been alone.
It even came through to Pat. The dope was wearing off fast, dropping off like a shell, leaving the inside naked. It came through to her like the fright of a child in the dark.
“God, Benny!” she screamed. “Benny-” but when she grabbed his arms and he turned, she saw a face that couldn’t possibly care.
“Benny, Benny!” Her fists pounding his chest and all he did was lean back on the window sill to keep clear of her.
When her fists became stronger he still didn’t care, leaning a little, and he only said, “No.” Then the pounding became a painful push, catching him the way he was, not caring, and he said, “No.” It was the last thing Pat could hear, because she was crying after him, watching him toss down into the dark; she cried so hard the sound from below was lost.
The two men from out West found him that night on the terrace. It had been raining in Chicago, and the two men were still wearing their raincoats.
“Dead,” said one of them. He started to feel Benny’s pockets. He almost cut his fingers on the glass, but he got the needle out and what was left of the rest.
“Beat this,” he said. “A hophead.”
