“How bad are you?” he asked finally. “Pretty bad, Louis,” she said and then uttered a sound that could have been a laugh. “I am terrible, in fact.” Something more seemed required, but Louis could not supply it. He felt suddenly resentful of her, of Steve Masterton, of Missy Dandridge and her husband with his arrowhead-shaped adam’s apple, of the whole damned crew. Why should he have to be the eternal supplier? What sort of shit was that?
