Mulrooney was feeling sorry for his young informant. Slag, the methamphetamine junkie, had ping-ponged through the door of his office ten minutes earlier. He was as hyper as a dog with distemper, and was now trying to find a way out the window.
Clarke was talking to him quietly, trying to harness Slag"s energy. “Let us help you, son,” Clarke said. “Something tells me you came back here because you know you need help.”
Mulrooney jotted down a name and hung up the phone. “I"ve got a spot lined up for you at Exodus, Slag.”
“REHAB? No way I"m goin" to any stinkin" rehab!” Slag yelled.
Mulrooney winced as Slag shoved a dirty fingernail into a blister that was eating through his face. “You can do it, kid,” he coaxed. “They"ll give you something to ease you back down. Com"on, Clarke and I wil
