“That’s swell, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
“It might.” Cullen yawned again extravagantly, scratched his arms.
Kells asked: “Yen?”
“Uh huh. I was about to cook up a couple loads when you busted in with all this heavy drama.” Cullen jerked his head toward the stair. “Eileen is upstairs.”
Kells said: “I thought the last cure took.”
“Sure. It took.” Cullen smiled sleepily. “Like the other nine. I’m down to two, three pipes each other day.”
They looked at one another expressionlessly for a little while.
A car chugged up the short curving slope below the front door, stopped. Kells turned and went into the semidarkness of the kitchen. A buzzer whirred. Cullen went to the front door, opened it, said: “Come in.” A little Irishman in the uniform of a cab driver came into the room and took off his hat. Cullen went back to the chair and sat down with his back to the room, picked up his drink.
The phone rang.
Kells came out of the kitchen and answered it. He stood for a while staring vacantly at the cab driver, then said, “Thanks, kid,” hung up, put his hand in his pocket and took out a small neatly folded sheaf of bills. “When you brought me here from the hotel about four o’clock,” he said, “I forgot to tip you.” He peeled off two bills and held them toward the driver.