Martin shook his head.
“I’m a drinker,” he said. “I’ll put a beer behind yours if you care for it. I’m not hungry enough yet to manage this.” He stood up, pushing his plate to one side.
“It’s a hell of a racket,” said Red, as they walked out together. “They make plenty on this garbage.”
It had grown dark. Under a streetlamp, Red looked sideways at Martin.
“My connection is around the corner,” he said. “It’s Chilean Hay—good stuff.”
“Sorry,” said Martin. “I’m a drinker. I don’t object to Marihuana, but it depresses me; gives me bum kicks, you know.”
The boy shrugged.
“O.K.,” he said. “There’s my connection.” He nodded to a man watching them from a doorway.
The fellow met them and looked suspiciously at Martin.