hotel furniture, shabby and anonymous. on the walls, contrasting with everything else, are two crying-clown pictures on black velvet, mounted in big boxy frames. myra stands in the middle of the room, and roy enters, shirt and trousers still disarranged.
lilly, hard and fast and urgent, on the phone.
the doctor, a nervous heavyset man in his fifties, a drinker from the look of him, is on the phone in b.g., while lilly prowls the room, looking at everything with distaste, then stopping to frown at the box-framed clown pictures. she doesn't get it. she touches one of the pictures, trying to understand. the doctor hangs up, turns to lilly.
another furnished apartment, this one with myra's clothing and dishes and glasses and other junk all over it. she crosses to the door, pulls it open. the apartment manager enters; a sullen, nervous, heavyset man.
roy's place. roy enters from the bedroom, carrying a suitcase, which he drops on the sofa. he goes to one of the box-framed clown pictures, takes it off the wall, puts it face down on the coffee table, removes two wing nuts holding the back, lifts off the back, and reveals stacks of money hidden inside. he takes two wads of money out, counting them, putting them on the coffee table, then fits the back in place, reattaches the wing nuts, and hangs the picture on the wall. stuffing the wads of money into the suitcase, he leaves.
roy's room. he has one of the clown pictures face down on the coffee table. he takes money from his jacket pockets, crams it into the space, which is now just about full. as he's tightening the wing nuts closing the back, doorbell rings. he hurries, finishing the job, hanging the picture on the wall, then crossing to open the door. myra enters, ebullient.
roy, troubled, paces while talking on the phone.