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drummed wildly, and he felt drenched in sweat. His hand shook like that of a palsy victim as he put his cigarette on an ashtray. He was transfixed, staring at his bulging eyes reflected in the dresser mirror. He was convinced that he was close to death. He shook in terror for two minutes before he collapsed to a prone position, free of the attack. Finally, he got up and staggered to the closet. He took a packet from the toe of a shoe at the back of the closet. He went to the bathroom and stripped off his pajamas. He unwrapped the brown paper packet. He shook cocaine from a nearly empty glassine bag into water in a bent spoon. He stirred the mix with a long fingernail before he filtered the liquid into a syringe through a bit of cotton.
    He raised his left arm and put his palm against the wall above the washbowl mirror. His armpit was shaved clean. He eased the spike into an armpit vein. He vomited into the bowl as he shot the dope. He backed up and sat on the toilet seat to defecate. A moment later, he frowned at the only fair quality of the coke, and there was his suspicion that it had been cut heavily with mannitol, a baby laxative. He sat there, hating his dependence on the drug. He smiled bitterly as he remembered how he had started using the treacherous powder a year ago. He had busted a small-time narcotics suspect dealing out of a poolroom john. His curiosity about the drug of the stars and the affluent had led him to retain one of the twenty-odd retail bags of coke when he booked the evidence and the suspect into Hollywood Division.
    After relieving himself, Crane got under the shower and made a mental memo that he just wouldn’t spend $130 per gram for low-quality coke.
    He shot his coke bag empty before he left the bathroom to dress. The coke hadn’t lifted him to the ideal height of ecstasy, but he whistled as he dressed, without depression.
    Finished, he studied himself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. The dark-gray business suit didn’t fit perfectly anymore. He promised himself that he would eat more starches—more food, period—to gain weight.
    He moved closer to the mirror and frowned as he noticed a new sprouting of gray hairs in his full auburn mop. He sighed and turned quickly away, toward the door. He nearly bumped into Millie entering the bedroom.
    “Good morning, handsome. Breakfast is ready,” she cooed as she embraced his waist and tiptoed, with her lips pursed for a kiss.
    “Hi, Mil,” he said as he kissed and hugged her.
    She stepped back, with a proud look on her cute round face. “Leo, I weighed myself this morning and I’ve dropped two more pounds. Look at this!” She spun around, her back facing him. She pulled her tentlike nightgown tight across her ample waist and heavy buttocks. “See, I’m getting a waistline again, and my rear end is going to be the way you like it, round and pretty again. Isn’t it wonderful?”
    Crane embraced her and nuzzled the back of her neck through her long black hair. “Sure, Mil, you’re doing great. Stay with it, sweet girl,” he said as he released her. He took her hand and led her down the hallway toward the kitchen.
    She sat at the table with him while he had oatmeal and rye toast. He was rising from the table when he saw the mailman leave the front porch. Millie was putting dishes into the dishwasher.
    She followed him to the front door. “Darling, I hope you get the chance to come home early one night soon…I’ve been saving a bunch of sugar,” she said, with her large brown eyes and sultry voice dripping starved passion.
    “Baby, I hope so, too. But we may be out of luck until Rucker gets back from vacation,” he said softly as he swung open the door. He kissed her forehead and stepped onto the porch.
    “I’ll see if there’s mail,” he said as he went to the box, out of her sight. He riffled through several pieces and removed a Bank of America envelope, which he put into his coat pocket.
    He gave the other mail to