She belly danced her way back to the sofa to Hamp’s “Flying Home.”

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Remnants of his filet steaks lay on cigarette-butted plates stacked on the beer can-littered coffee table. High heels, panties, jeans, and condoms were strewn on the carpet. Dead soldiers of scotch and bourbon glittered from the wastebasket. A half-dozen nude teenaged couples, pretzeled on the couch, chairs, and floor, chattered and laughed raucously. They raised eyebrows, and then ignored him as he moved past them through a smog of hash smoke toward his bedroom. He halted slit-eyed in the hallway and knotted his fists at the appearance of a strange, brawny, teenage jock prancing from his bedroom toward him with a con grin on his foxy face. “Whew! Man, I’m glad you showed. I’m Freddie. You must be Jay, Ila’s old man. I been helping your old lady with the party and stuff. You know, I been making like a bouncer keeping everybody from tearing your joint down and bad asses from crashing in.” Lipstick smeared Freddie as he stuck out his palm.