Then to a hotel--but now as a place of rest and refuge, not a symbol of flight and fear. His hate returned, beautiful, now, flower-like, delicate, to be enjoyed. To be tasted, bee-like, at his leisure. The city outside was a whirl of lights and the lights hypnotized him with their magic. Soon he was in the streets. There were cabs and scenes: laughter, love, death, passion--everything rolled into a capsule bundle for him. The city spread out below in a fabric of light, the hazy blue of cigar smoke closely pressing sweaty bodies, laughing mouths. A swirl of sensations. "Somewhere else!" he cried madly to a driver. China Town, The International Settlement, Fisherman's Wharf.... The cabbies knew a tourist. * * * * * He had been moving for hours, and now he was tired and lost, and he could not find a cab to get back to the Sir Francis Drake. A girl and a sailor passed. A tall lithe blonde with a pert nose and high cheek bones and brown eyes, heavy lips and free hips ... a ... blonde. The Oholo ... Lauri ... was a blonde. He began to cast up memories of her, sickeningly, making his fists clench. He wanted a blonde to smile at him, unsuspecting. A blonde with honey colored hair and a long, slim throat with a blue vein in it, so he could watch the heart beat. He wanted to hurt the blonde, and hold her, and caress her softly, and ... most of all, hurt her. He wanted to shake his fists at the sky and scream in frustration. He wanted to find a blonde.... Finally he found one. In a small, red-fronted bar, dimly lit. She was sitting at the end of the bar, facing the door, toying with a tall drink, half empty, from which the ice had melted. "What'll it be, Mister?" "Anything! Anything!" he said excitedly as he slipped behind a table, his eyes still on the woman at the bar. "And the same for me?" "Sure. Sure." She brought back two drinks, picked up a bill, turned it over in her hand speculatively. She wore an off the shoulder dress, and high rouge on her Mexican cheeks. She made change from her apron, putting the money beside the second glass, sitting down in front of it, across from him. Still he had not noticed her. Two patrons entered. They moved to a table in the far corner near the Venetian blinds of the window and began to talk in low husky voices. "I'll be back, dearie," the woman across from Parr said, sipping her drink, smearing the glass rim in a veined half moon. She went to serve the girls. When she came back Parr had brushed away the drink from in front of him. "Listen, dearie," she said. "You got troubles?" He grunted. She snaked an ample hand half across the table and wiggled her shoulders to show off her breasts. "I bet I know what's wrong with you. Same as a lotta men, dearie. Want a little fun, I bet." "Bring me that blonde," he said hoarsely. "Listen, dearie, you don't want her. What you want...." "The blonde!" * * * * *