She pouted.
“Look, can’t we talk about something else? I’m so very tired of Maureen.”
“She’s not my ball of fire either,” I said, tasting the whisky. It was strong enough to raise blisters on the hide of a buffalo. “But I knew her in the old days, and I’m curious. What exactly’s the matter with her?”
She leaned back her blonde head and lowered most of the Scotch down her creamy-white, rather beautiful throat. The way she swallowed that raw whisky told me she had a talent for drinking.
“I shouldn’t tell you,” she said, and smiled. “But if you promise not to say a word…”
“Not a word.”
“She’s being tapered off a drug jag. That’s strictly confidential.”
“Bad?”
She shrugged.
“Bad enough.”