“It’s O.K.,” said Martin’s friend. He took two cigarettes and handed back a quarter.
“I’m hot,” said the fellow, and walked away.
“He’s right,” said Red. “The law has his number. They know he’s peddling.”
“That makes it nice for us.” Martin glanced cautiously around him.
“We’re O.K. The law don’t bother the consumer. Here!” Red pointed to a dimly-lighted alley. “We can blast it right here.”
“Isn’t it rather open?”
“It’s all right,” said the boy. He lit a cigarette, puffed on it and held the smoke in his lungs. Talking jerkily, he let out the smoke.
“There’s just two kinds of men in the Bowery,” he said. “Weed-heads like me, and they’re smart. And lushhounds—” he stopped talking.
“Like me?” asked Martin.