to be blurring his reason。 Danny？ What was all of this about Danny？ And what was
he doing in a bar with a drink in his hand？
He had TAKEN THE PLEDGE。 He had GONE ON THE WAGON。 He had SWORN OFF。
What could they want with his son？ What could they want with Danny？ Wendy and
Danny weren't in it。 He tried to see into Lloyd's shadowed eyes； but it was too
dark； too dark； it was like trying to read emotion into the empty orbs of a
skull。
（It's me they must want 。。。 isn't it？ I am the one。 Not Danny； not Wendy。
I'm the one who loves it here。 They wanted to leave。 I'm the one who took care
of the snowmobile 。。。 went through the old records 。。。 dumped the press on
the boiler 。。。 lied 。。。 practically sold my soul 。。。 what can they want
with him？）
〃Where is the manager？〃 He tried to ask it casually but his words seemed to
e out between lips already numbed by the first drink； like words from a
nightmare rather than those in a sweet dream。
Lloyd only smiled。
〃What do you want with my son？ Danny's not in this 。。。 is he？〃 He heard the
naked plea in his own voice。
Lloyd's face seemed to be running； changing； being something pestilent。 The
white skin being a hepatitic yellow； cracking。 Red sores erupting on the
skin； bleeding foul smelling liquid。 Droplets of blood sprang out on Lloyd's
forehead like sweat and somewhere a silver chime was striking the quarter…hour。
（Unmask； unmask！）
〃Drink your drink； Mr。 Torrance；〃 Lloyd said softly。 〃It isn't a matter that
concerns you。 Not at this point。〃
He picked his drink up again； raised it to his lips； and hesitated。 He heard
the hard； horrible snap as Danny's arm broke。 He saw the bicycle flying brokenly
up over the hood of Al's car； starring the windshield。 He saw a single wheel
lying in the road； twisted spokes pointing into the sky like jags of piano wire。
He became aware that all conversation had stopped。
He looked back over his shoulder。 They were all looking at him expectantly；
silently。 The man beside the woman in the sarong had removed his foxhead and
Jack saw that it was Horace Derwent； his pallid blond hair spilling across his
forehead。 Everyone at the bar was watching； too。 The woman beside him was
looking at him closely； as if trying to focus。 Her dress had slipped off one
shoulder and looking down he could see a loosely puckered nipple capping one
sagging breast。 Looking back at her face he began to think that this might be
the woman from 217； the one who had tried to strangle Danny。 On his other hand；
the man in the sharp blue suit had removed a small pearl…handled 。32 from his
jacket pocket and was idly spinning it on the bar； like a man with Russian
roulette on his mind。
（I want — ）
He realized the words were not passing through his frozen vocal cords and
tried again。
〃I want to see the manager。 I 。。。 I don't think he understands。 My son is
not a part of this。 He 。。。 〃
〃Mr。 Torrance；〃 Lloyd said； his voice ing with hideous gentleness from
inside his plague…raddled face； 〃you will meet the manager in due time。 He has；
in fact； decided to make you his agent in this matter。 Now drink your drink。〃
〃Drink your drink；〃 they all echoed。
He picked it up with a badly trembling hand。 It was raw gin。 He looked into
it； and looking was like drowning。
The woman beside him began to sing in a flat； dead voice： 〃Roll 。。。 out。。。
the barrel 。。。 and we'll have。。。 a barrel 。。。 of fun。。。〃
Lloyd picked it up。 Then the man in the blue suit。 The dog…man joined in；
thumping one paw against the table
〃Now's the time to roll the barrel — 〃
Derwent added his voice to the rest。 A cigarette was cocked in one corner of
his mouth at a jaunty angle。 His right arm was around the shoulders of the woman
in the sarong； and his right band was gently and absently stroking her right
breast。 He was looking at the dog…man with amused contempt as he sang。
〃 — because the gang's 。。。 all 。。。 here！〃
Jack brought the drink to his mouth and downed it in three long gulps； the gin
highballing down his throat like a moving van in a tunnel； exploding in his
stomach； rebounding up to his brain in one leap where it seized hold of him with
a final convulsing fit of the shakes。
When that passed off； he felt fine。
〃Do it again； please；〃 he said； and pushed the empty glass toward Lloyd。
〃Yes； sir；〃 Lloyd said； taking the glass。 Lloyd looked perfectly normal again。
The olive…skinned man had put his 。32 away。 The woman on his right was staring
into her singapore sling again。 One breast was wholly exposed now； leaning on
the bar's leather buffer。 A vacuous crooning noise came from her slack mouth。
The loom of conversation had begun again； weaving and weaving。
His new drink appeared in front of him。
〃 Muchas gracias； Lloyd；〃 he said； picking it up。
〃Always a pleasure to serve you； Mr。 Torrance。〃 Lloyd smiled。
〃You were always the best of them； Lloyd。〃
〃Why； thank you； sir。〃
He drank slowly this time； letting it trickle down his throat； tossing a few
peanuts down the chute for good luck。
The drink was gone in no time； and he ordered another。 Mr。 President； I have
met the martians and am pleased to report they are friendly。 While Lloyd fixed
another； he began searching his pockets for a quarter to put in the jukebox。 He
thought of Danny again； but Danny's face was pleasantly fuzzed and nondescript
now。 He had hurt Danny once； but that had been before he had learned how to
handle his liquor。 Those days were behind him now。 He would never hurt Danny
again。
Not for the world。
》
CONVERSATIONS AT THE PARTY
He was dancing with a beautiful woman。
He had no idea what time it was； how long he had spent in the Colorado Lounge
or how long he had been here in the ballroom。 Time had ceased to matter。
He had vague memories： listening to a man who had once been a successful radio
ic and then a variety star in TV； infant days telling a very long and very
hilarious joke about incest between Siamese twins； seeing the woman in the harem
pants and the sequined bra do a slow and sinuous striptease to some bumping…and…
grinding music from the jukebox （it seemed it had been David Rose's theme music
from The Stripper）； crossing the lobby as one of three； the other two men in
evening dress that predated the twenties； all of them singing about the stiff
patch on Rosie O'Grady's knickers。 He seemed to remember looking out the big
double doors and seeing Japanese lanterns strung in graceful； curving arcs that
followed the sweep of the driveway — they gleamed in soft pastel colors like
dusky jewels。 The big glass globe on the porch ceiling was on； and night…insects
bumped and flittered against it； and a part of him； perhaps the last tiny spark
of sobriety； tried to tell him that it was 6 A。M。 on a morning in December。 But
time had been canceled。
（The arguments against insanity fall through with a soft shurring sound/layer
on layer 。。。）
Who was that？ Some poet he had read as an undergraduate？ Some undergraduate
poet