( He rocks back in his chair. The rickety sound of it under his insensate weight, the curl of a voice like woodsmoke shrouding the space between them. Figures, Roy is thinking, thoughts coiled into a spring. His right hand is crossed his left wrist, the knob of wristbone against the fleshy pad of his thumb.

Figures.

He's worked in show biz. He's seen the beauties of the beauties; he's knocked back beers with the best of 'em. This, however, is no gold-buckled hokey from Malibu Beach with a bobcut and false eyelashes. There are stars in the gray firmament of those eyes, Roy thinks, suddenly, nonsensically — it's like craning up and looking into the sky and having the fucking north star look back. This must be a dream or a delusion or maybe Alexandra's appetite for fantasy is starting to spread into the empty crevices of what Roy has become. )

Ha, ha. ( The empty clatter of two wooden syllables, falling from a leaden tongue. But Roy is perched on an edge, his wits slowly returning to him; alarmed is the least of it. )

What do you know. The king of - fairies or angels or Clara Bow's clique of cherry chapstick chiclets, whatever the hell you are - is a dead ringer for little old me. ( Another low bout of laughter. ) You poor bastard.