“I told you. I don’t know where he is. What do you want him for?” “I have something for him.” “What is it?” he said in Greek. “Drugs?” “Yes.” “Well, give me something, for God’s sake,” he said, swaying forward, pop-eyed. He was far too drunk for sleeping pills. I gave him an Excedrin. “Thanks,” he said, and swallowed it with a big sloppy drink of his whiskey. “I hope I die in the night.
