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NOT far from the Commodore Theatre was the studio of Jan Dobrinu, artistic photographer. Narrow stairs led to the studio anteroom, where, at seven o'clock, Dobrinu, small, dark, waxed black mustache twisted into two fine points, paid off his models of the day. A boy with face molded of paste, white-lipped girl, hair dankly strung in bangs and square-cut bob.

Ken, shifting weight from foot to foot. Dobrinu handed him twenty-five dollars. Felt hat over his eyes, he turned away.

"I don't like drunks," said Dobrinu.

"I hate you," Ken retorted. Then raced down the stairs, two at a time.

Kewpie stood at the door. Broadway. Dusk. Lights oddly colored against a faded salmon sky. Theatre lights. Street lights. Yellow, red, green.

"Going home?" Kewpie asked.

"No." Ken's voice was coarse. He fled into the crowd.

"You mighta said thanks!" shouted Kewpie.

At the corner, Ken paused. Into the traffic he started. A red light held motor cars at attention. The low pitched tone of an automobile horn shocked him. He halted, head bowed.

"Mistah Gracey," he heard a voice.

He looked up. It was Rutgers. The limousine glided to his side. "Come in, Ken," he heard Howard say. Really