NOVEMBER 21, 1934
I WAS DRY AS A BONE. Dying, really. What do our kind do when we sober up? I already knew that answer. We wander into the streets and chew off the top of Little Orphan Annie’s head.
“I’m dying, Jones,” the head said.
“Shut up,” I said. My throat was dusty. I felt a little tickle in my belly. Like a brain might really hit the spot.
What was that all about? What was the fascination? Something primordial in our being that made us go for... No. Got to stop. I’m getting too sober. There must be a clean source of booze in the city.
“What is this junk, anyway?” I said, throwing the packet of white powder down on the desk. She had left me that much at least. Along with a big sloppy red lipstick mark. On the bag, not on my face. Who could figure out dames?
“Give me a drink,”
