NOVEMBER 7, 1934
DIDN’T DO ANYTHING much yesterday. I’m still recuperating from my ordeal. I went to the bar, then back to the room. I just realized I never finished my last entry. Where was I? Oh, yes, finishing up the story about that S.O.B. Delamort.
Anyway, Delamort had me locked up or paralyzed or whatever it was in his little dungeon of doom and gloom and torture. Ivan, the client, was there too, as was a whole stack of other deadheads I wasn’t getting paid to help. I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to help them anyway.
“Hey, listen, Delamort,” I said, “I’m dying for a square. As long as you’ve got my arms like this, you think you could do me a favor?”
He stared at me as though I was talking some hippidy-bippidy mumbo-jumbo.
“Cigarette?” I simplified.
“Oh,” the bokor said, noddin
