"I can't say about your psycho-doping," declared Arnold Wilson Wyle, also rising. "But I got faith in your handicapping. I'd still like a long shot at Hialeah if you happen to have one."
"I been too busy trying to help Zelda," Clocker said in apology.
They left, Doc Hawkins pausing at the bar to pick up a credit bottle to see him through his overdue medical column.
Handy Sam slipped on his shoes to go. "Stick with it, Clocker. I said you was a scientist—"
"I said it," contradicted Buttonhole, lifting himself out of the chair on Handy Sam's lapels. "If anybody can lick this caper, Clocker can."
Oil Pocket glumly watched them leave. "Doctors not think spirits real," he said. "I get sick, go to Reservation doctor. He give me medicine. I get sicker. Medicine man see evil spirits make me sick. Shakes rattle. Dances. Evil spirits go. I get better."
"I don't know what in hell to think," confided Clocker, miserable and confused. "If it would help Zelda, I'd cut my throat from head to foot so I could become a spirit and get the others to lay off her."
"Then you spirit, she alive. Making love not very practical."
"Then what do I do—hire a medium?"
"Get medicine man from Reservation. He drive out evil spirits."