“How about a drink?” I asked.
She hesitated. “Do you have anything with, um, a kick?”
I stared back at her, expressionless. Never make assumptions -- that’s my angle.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m -- I’m no crook,” she said, Bambi-eyed and apparently wounded.
“I think I have what you’re after,” I said. “Sure.”
I poured two cups of foamy orange liquid from a large medical bottle. Of course, the label on the opaque greenish glass was a lie; it read: Liquid Cocaine For Toothaches. (I had poured out the useless dental remedy onto the street, and a few pigeons lapped up the whitish puddle, then briefly fluttered with the haughty pluck of birds who owned this town, before each collapsed in a sad pile of feathers on the asphalt; one exploded. I smoked a cigarette.)