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Rh while Ken drank champagne. Then, long legs askew in a gesture of abandon, Ken danced.

As he danced, the pulse of his temples throbbed aloud; his heart pounded, his head cleared. Surging of irresistible energy flooded his body.

Rocco stood at the side of the dance floor, eyes glowing with admiration. "What a dancer!" he cried. The "boys" applauded. Ken responded to the noisy expression of approval. He repeated the dance. "I told you so—what a dance!"

The dance over, Ken wanted to rest. His breath came in short gasps. The liquor pounded against his heart. "You sit next to me," Rocco said. Ken sat. "I kill for you, maybe," said Rocco. "Please don't—until I tell you to," Ken meekly requested. A waiter asked him what he wanted.

"No food. A drink," said Ken.

"My good Scotch," suggested Rocco with keen solicitude, "House of Lords, direct from the other side," he said proudly, "right under Al's nose."

"Who's Al?" Ken asked.

"If you say so, I kill him."

"Capone?"

He nodded, eyes flooded with the glowing light of self-esteem. Then he rose.

"Boys," he said, "you drink to me, I know. That you did before. Now … drink to il huomo volante … my butterfly man."