He stood up. His skin was gray, the way people’s faces look when they see the grave. “I need help.” I hated what I had to do. I wrote my cell phone number on a memo slip and handed it to him. “There’s a meeting at seven o’clock. I can pick you up.” He crunched the memo slip and bounced it on my desk. “I’ll stick with drinking. I may get popped, but I’m not going to crawl. I’ll still be me, for good or bad. What will you be? A big fish in a dirty pond.” “You said Jimmy Nightingale knows too much. Too much about what?” “How Frankenstein works,” he replied. “What’d you think?”
