"Sure, Ray." Jerry pulled out a wallet. "Can even make it a double-saw, if you want."
"Swell," Ray said. He left the bill on the bar and tossed off his double. It tasted like hell to him; he didn't like the taste of raw whisky. But he ordered another.
Twenty minutes and four drinks later he was feeling high, definitely high. His tongue was thick and if he stared fixedly at anything or anybody he found himself seeing double; to keep his eyes focused he had to move them frequently. And he knew that the full force of the drinks hadn't hit him yet; fifteen minutes or half an hour more and he'd feel them a lot worse.
"One more," he said.
"Listen, Ray, you've had plenty. Don't you think you'd better call it off for tonight?" Jerry sounded genuinely concerned. "Uh—are you driving?"
"Nope. Car's being worked on. So one more, then I'll call it off. Okay?"
But he sat staring at the one more, and he was realizing that maybe getting arrested for being drunk wasn't as easy as getting drunk was. How do you get arrested if there isn't a cop around? Was he going to have to start trouble or a fight so Jerry would have to call the cops? He hated trouble, and he hated fights worse, but—
And then the answer came through the door. Officer Hoff and his squad car partner, the pair he'd talked to earlier in Jick's place, came in. Hoff said, "Hi, Jerry. Two damn quick quickies. Hi, Ray. How goes it?"
This was his chance. With drunken dignity Ray got off the stool and started back toward the juke box. He tried to stagger—and found that he didn't have to try. He almost fell, caught himself with a hand against the wall, and apparently forgot where he'd been going and came back to his stool, but stood there behind it, swaying. He reached for his drink and spilled half of it, got the rest down and dropped the glass. He swayed back onto the stool—he was exaggerating, acting, but not much—and sat there glowering at Hoff. "Goddam cop," he said thickly. "God, how I hate cops."
"Look, Hoffie," Jerry said, conciliatingly, "he's drunk, so don't get mad. And don't blame me. This hit him sudden like, or I'd of cut him off sooner. He's been in here only twenty minutes or so, and he acted cold sober till just now. I'd hate to see him get jugged—Ray's a nice guy. Could you guys spare time to run him home and get him out of trouble?"