light from the x window shines on a florida tourist poster as ratso leads joe into an abandoned tub-in-kitchen flat, barely furnished with a table and chair, a rumple of blankets on a burnt-out mattress.
ratso's face seems to radiate evil as he lights a sterno can. joe forces his eyes half-open.
joe lies on his cot, watching ratso struggle to penetrate the fibrous husk of a coconut, experimenting with a variety of rusty tools in an old cigar box.
joe slams his heel down. the coconut shoots out from under him and he lands on his ass.
joe is seated in a straight-back chair near the x window, a towel tucked around his neck as ratso trims his hair, almost as expert a barber as shoeshine boy.
 ratso huddled in the overstuffed chair -- wearing the stolen sheepskin coat -- wrapped in blankets, his teeth chattering, in spite of the sweat on his forehead. joe stops abruptly, his mood shattered by ratso's alarming condition. they simply stare at each other for a moment, then joe turns away to see soup heating on the sterno stove. joe tosses one of his paper bags onto ratso's lap.