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hand going up to his mouth.
    “Jesus!” the storekeeper said. He came out from behind the counter, his apron smeared with chocolate syrup. He took Ray’s arm. “Jesus!” he said again. Quickly, he started walking Ray to the back of the store. Now, with his back to the sun, the storekeeper’s glasses had turned transparent again, and Ray saw narrow brown eyes behind them. He looked into the eyes, and shame swept over his body, shame that he had to be led to the bathroom by a stranger.
    “Right in there,” the storekeeper said. He opened a door and practically shoved Ray inside. “Lift the seat,” he cautioned.
    Ray gripped the porcelain bowl and braced himself against the wave starting at the pit of his stomach. God, he was sick. Good God, he was sick. His eyes sprang water, and the tears ran down his cheeks as his body was turned inside out. The smell of waste flooded into his nostrils, mingled with the heavy odor of urine in the close room. Again the nausea swept over him and a new paroxysm seized his stomach. Again. Again.
    And finally, he was hanging limply over the bowl, sweat mingled with the tears on his face. He pushed himself upright, his hand fumbling for the flush handle. The sound of the water roared in his ears as he staggered toward the small sink. He turned on the cold water, doused his face. He felt a little better. He stood upright, straightened his tie, let out an exhausted sigh. His eyes met their own reflection in the mirror. He stared at them, oblivious to the rest of his features. They were bright, almost feverish, a deep gray against the pallor of his face. Addict’s eyes. Ray Stone, hophead.
    Shut up, he screamed mentally, shut up, shut up! He was still breathing heavily. He swallowed deeply, trying to compose himself before he went out to meet the sober brown eyes of the storekeeper. At last he felt calm enough, and he stepped out of the tiny room, closing the door gently behind him. He walked to the counter, climbed up on a stool. He looked up at the storekeeper, wondering if he knew an addict was sitting on one of his stools.
    “A glass of seltzer,” he said. His eye caught the newspapers stacked on the counter. Quickly, he snatched one from the top of the pile, looked at his picture, and hastily turned to page three for the story.
    The storekeeper set the glass of seltzer in front of Ray, a wet smear trailing behind it.
    “Big head, eh?” he asked.
    “Huh? Oh. Oh yes.”
    “I always stay away from it myself during the day.” Ray nodded. There was a picture of Eileen Chalmers on the third page, a picture taken when she was still alive. She was smiling happily, standing next to a thin man who grinned self-consciously at the photographers. The text under the picture read: Eileen Chalmers, lovely victim of West Side hotel slaying, about to embark on honeymoon with her bandleader husband, Dale Kramer, just after their marriage last April.
    “You young fellows,” the storekeeper said. “Cast-iron stomachs, that’s what you’ve got. It catches up with you, though. Got to be careful.”
    Ray nodded again, his eyes scanning the story. Police are hunting the city for Raymond Stone, believed to be a drug addict…last seen with the dead girl…Hotel Stockmere…clerk described Stone as being tall, well-built, with blond hair…believed by police that Stone will be apprehended shortly…need for drug will lead him to seek contacts for securing…
    “Hey, you ain’t touched your seltzer,” the storekeeper said.
    “What?” He looked up into the inquiring brown eyes. “The seltzer, yes, thank you.” He lifted the glass, sipped a little of it, his eyes running down to where he’d left off on the page.
    … contacts for securing… They had it sewed up tight! Albert Stone, father of the suspect, expressed the desire that his son be captured…help him, he believed…cure him …
    Futility flooded over Ray, a hopeless wash of futility that left him weak. He felt tears behind his eyes,