bed fully clothed, even to his shoes.
He twisted fretfully in his sleep; the body tried to rise, anticipating
nature even when the mind could not. The man gagged several times and
finally made it up to a sitting position before the vomit came. He was
still asleep, but his reaction was automatic; he grabbed the bottom of
his sweater and pulled it out before him to form a bucket of sorts. When
he finished being sick he sat still, swaying gently back and forth, and
tried to open his eyes. He could not make it. Still asleep, he ducked
out of the fouled sweater, made an ineffectual dab at his mouth, wadded
the sweater in a ball, and threw it over in front of the bathroom door.

He fell back on the bed, exhausted, and went on with his fitful sleep.

* * * * *

At 4:15 in the morning a man walked into the station house. His name was
Henry Tilton. He was a reporter for the _Evening Press_. He waved a
greeting to the desk sergeant and went over to kibitz the card game.

Both players looked up, startled. The reporter playing cards said,
"Hello, Henry." He looked at his watch. "Whoosh! I didn't realize it was
that late." He turned to the businessman. "Hurry up, finish the hand.
Got to get my beauty sleep."

"Whaddaya mean, hurry up," said Bernie, "you're into me for fifteen
bucks."

"Get it back from Hank here," the reporter said. He nodded at the
newcomer, "Want this hand? You're fourteen points down. Lover boy's got
sixty-eight on game, but you're a box up."

"Sure," said Tilton. He took the cards.

The morning news reporters left. The businessman dealt a new hand.
Tilton waited four rounds, then knocked with ten.

Bernie slammed down his cards. "You lousy reporters are all alike! I'm
going home." He got up to put on his coat. "I'll be back about ten, you
still be here?"

"Sure," said Tilton, "... with the score." He folded the paper and put
it in his pocket.

The businessman walked out and Tilton went over to the deAngelis board.
"Anything?" he asked.

"Nah," said King. He pointed to the lights, "Just lovers' quarrels
tonight; all pale pink and peaceful."

Tilton smiled and ambled back to the cell block. The operator put his
feet up on his desk, then frowned and put them down again. He leaned
toward the board and studied the light at the end of the second row. The
needle registered sixty-six. The operator pursed his lips, then flicked
a switch that opened the photo file. Every five