NOVEMBER 18, 1934
I WOKE UP TO A FLURRY of knocks at the door. God damn it.
“Jones!” Alcibé yelled. “Get the door.”
“Get it yourself, head,” I moaned.
Another flutter of knocking. God damn it.
“God damn it,” I said, and I pulled myself up. I wouldn’t say we get hungover. That doesn’t make much sense. More like we get sleep deprived and the closest thing I can compare it to is being hungover. I was out most of the night walking home from Lazar’s penthouse. Still not clear why we need sleep. Or why we can have s*x. I went to the glass door. “Gnaghi?”
“Thank you for answering,” the old gravedigger said, near breathless. “Please let me in.”
“The door was unlocked,” I said, pulling it open. “The door’s always unlocked. This is a place of business.”
The big blue goon hurried in, and I sa
