The ConflictA run-down liquor shop in the Spadros slums: the door, warped; the floor tiles, cracked. The room smelled of mold; the lamps were dusty and streaked with soot. No one stood behind the counter, so I wandered among aisles of bottom shelf swill for several minutes before someone appeared.
“Who’s there? What do you want?” From his speech, he had taken quite a bit of Party Time already.
I emerged into view. “Your door-bell is broken.”
“Oh,” my father said, “it’s you.”
Peedro Sluff was still a dissolute wretch, who would sell his soul — assuming he had one — to supply his lusts, especially if the transaction involved Party Time.
“So this is what you traded me for? So you can snort Party Time all day?”
“Aww, Jacqui, you’re not happy wearing silks and eating pheasant? Give me the
