TWELVESEVERAL INCIDENTS occurred en route.
Dottie wanted to get out a couple of times and visit bars along the way. One of those times the car was moving, and I received slight racial scratches while subduing her with one hand while driving with the other.
The Dulcine Street place stood on a corner, a long, narrow white clapboard structure with doors opening on the sides upstairs onto a space-saving outside catwalk. Each door was lighted by a little dim bulb burning in a mail-order-house fixture screwed into the door frame. They have those same fixtures on the porches in Milquevais. Also the same horseshoe style of door-knockers.
Dottie didn’t want to give me the key to Apartment G; she wanted to go to Ye Olde Crowe’s Neste for a nightcap. She said so noisily—so much so that the door of
