“Cripes, I wish I had a drink.”
Bertha made rapid little triangles on the scratch-pad. “I’ve got a bottle in the cloak closet,” she observed.
“I’m not supposed to touch the stuff when I’m on duty,” he said, and then added in a burst of confidence, “That’s my weakness. I can lay off the stuff for months at a time, just take a drink or two and leave it alone, or get along without touching it altogether. Then something snaps. I get started drinking and the more I drink the more I want. I get so I just have to have it. That’s what’s holding me back on a promotion. If it weren’t for a couple of binges I’ve been on, I’d be sitting pretty right to-day.”
Bertha kept her eyes on her moving pencil point. “I never touch the stuff myself unless I’m real tired, or feel that I’m catching cold. I think it’s a lot better to have a couple of drinks than to get laid up with a cold. A cold raises hell with me.”
“It does with me too. Say, if you’ve got a bottle here, bring it out. You look like a good scout. I guess I can trust you not to say anything about it.”
Bertha brought out the bottle and a couple of glasses. The officer tossed off his drink, licked his chops, and looked hungrily at the bottle. Bertha poured him another one. That went the way of the first.
“That’s good hooch,” he complimented her.
“The best money can buy,” Bertha agreed.
“Lady, you saved my life. I was just beginning to get a chill.”
“Probably the flu coming on. Go right ahead, help yourself. That bottle was given to me by a client.”