"Well, what do you want?" she said coldly.

"My dear pal Cynthia… so nice to see you again. So inexperienced, so sweet, who has no eyes for Frankie," she laughed, loudly and drunkenly.

"Okay, cut it out, I'm leaving," she replied as she put her hand on the knob.

"No… wait," Gypsy's loud, crazy laugh ended in a series of hiccoughs. "Stay awhile."

Cynthia remained motionless, staring at her with disgust, not knowing whether she should leave or stay and take the chance of being insulted further.

"Here, have a drink." Gypsy leaned over, reaching for the bottle, and almost fell off the chair.

Cynthia shook her head, "No thanks," she said brusquely.

"Aw, come on honey," Gypsy continued, "after all, we've got something in common to drink to."

"We have absolutely nothing in common!" she replied.

"Well, at least pour me a slug," Gypsy stammered, "The damn bottle keeps moving around."

Cynthia walked over, splashed some gin in a glass and handed it to Gypsy. "Here," she said as Gypsy reached out to take it with a shaking hand. Seeing her close up, Cynthia noticed that she looked ten years older, the skin on her face was pasty white and deeply lined; her hair which had once been an electric red was now limp and dull. She began to feel a little sorry for her.

"Look Gypsy, don't you think it's about time you went home? I'll get one of the boys to take you…"

"Don't tell me what to do," she interrupted angrily, looking up at her with lifeless and bloodshot eyes.

"Have it your own way, then. Good-bye!" she said as she started for the door.

"I'm waiting for Frankie to take me home," she said with a smug smile on her face.

"Don't be stupid," Cynthia retorted, "Frankie wouldn't drive you to a dog fight."

"That's all you know about it, dearie," Gypsy said, glancing up at her haughtily.