"Well--so help me--what the Hell is coming off here?" said Evelyn, as she came into the bathroom, her face blank in wonderment. "Oh, Jees--this is great--let's have a drink," said Henry, as he came in behind Evelyn. "You know, Ev, we might as well join the merry, mad gang--what do you say?" "I dare you, Henry," answered Evelyn, as she started to strip with speed. Pearl, in Harry's arms, leaped into the milling, singing, drinking, wrestling mob, in the semi-dark room, held tight in each others' arms, naked bodies rubbed against each other, strangers kissed passionately, lovers kissed more passionately, enemies kissed less passionately, but kissed--in their drunken orgy they had forgotten what they were enemies about--couples who had been dancing longer than the others fell on the floor, locked in each others' arms, their legs stuck grotesquely in the air above them, while their burning wet lips were pressed tightly against each others' mouths, stopping only long enough to take a drink. A shriek from the bathroom--Evelyn and Henry leaped into the mob, naked as the rest--"Shake it up, baby," screamed Evelyn, as she and Henry in a tight embrace started singing and dancing with the rest; as the other couples fell to the floor newer and fresher couples joined the throng--only to fall later on the floor, to continue the party with mad, wet kisses, and--? "My snow-white darling, I have love you so veer long, I weel never love but you--I have never love no one but you--only you--my darling--my darling--" came a soft voice near Pearl's ear, and as she looked closely, she saw it was the tall, handsome Moros, with the blonde Irene in his arms. "Get your Goddam foot out of my face," yelled a drunken voice. "My humble pardon, Senor--I am looking for some one," answered the deep, sober voice of a Mexican woman. "Why the Hell don't you turn on the light, then?" "That, Senor, is a veer good idea," as she returned to the door and snapped on a flood of bright, red light. Couples that were still on their feet, stopped dead still. Couples that were on the floor, stopped whatever they were doing--all looking towards the door, where the Mexican woman was standing, her hand still on the light button. Not a soul moved. Negro Noche stood motionless--her pock-marked face covered with a heavy layer of snow white powder that is typical of all Mexican women. Eyes gleaming, breathing heavily, she pulled a heavy, dark-blue, 45-calibre automatic from under her dirty coat, as a grim smile broke the death-like mask that was her face. Six shots rent the dead silence. Juan and Irene lay in each others' arms, just as they had a few minutes before, but they knew it not. Negro Noche had accomplished her purpose--her lover and her rival were to annoy her no more--the gun silent in her hand, finger still on the light button, a blue wisp of smoke rose from the end of the gun, as the blood from the two bodies rapidly spread on the cheap, worn carpet--pandemonium broke loose.