NOVEMBER 12, 1934
IT WAS A GOOD THING Lazar walked into my office. I was down to maybe a third of a bottle of Old Crow. I was reduced to drinking beer and mouthwash to keep up my alcohol content. Alcibé was listening to the radio. As usual, I was tossing cards into my hat.
Lazar walked over and turned off the squawk box. He was carrying a leather suitcase.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “I’m about dried up. ”
“I heard about what you did for Ivan Skaron,” Lazar said.
“Yeah,” I said, “well, I’m just glad they could sew his legs back on. Didn’t know they’d still work. We’re funny creatures, you know that?”
He seemed to be trailing his finger along the layer of dust on my wall. What was I going to do? Clean it? Why bother? What difference did hygiene make to our kind? It wasn’t as thoug
