Reznick snatched a few hours’ sleep, and was up just after four. He showered, got dressed, and took a taxi to the airport. He sat in the departure lounge ahead of the early-morning flight to New York, gulping down his second black coffee of the day. His mouth felt dry after the booze, but he was neither up nor down after the drinks with Dorfman. He always knew when to call it a night—but it was clear his old friend had been hitting the liquor hard for years. The tremor in his hand, the way he finished his beers in three or four gulps. He’d seen it all before. Dorfman was an alcoholic.
