It sounded like someone was knocking with a sledgehammer. I
rolled over and cracked a bloodshot eye. I couldn’t see a
figure through the window, but that wasn’t surprising. I
could barely make out the lettering on the grimy glass:
I had blown my wad buying the glass and wound up being my
own painter.
The window was as dirty as last week’s dishwater, but
not filthy enough to block out the piercing morning light. The
damned sun wasn’t up yet! And I’d been out till the
second watch barhopping while I followed a guy who might lead me to
a guy who might know where I could find a guy. All this led to was
a pounding headache.
“Go away!” I growled. “Not
available.”
“Go to hell away!” I yelled. It left my head feeling
like an egg that had just bounced off the edge of a frying pan. I
wondered if I ought to feel the back to see if the yolk was
leaking, but it seemed like too much work. I’d just go ahead
and die.
I have a little trouble with my temper, especially when I have a
hangover. I was halfway to the door with two feet of lead-weighted
truncheon before sense penetrated the scrambled yolk.
When they are that insistent, it’s somebody from up the
hill with a summons to do work too sticky to lay on their own boys.
Or it’s somebody from down the hill with the word that
you’re stepping on the wrong toes.
