Joe shrugged. “When you’re crazy, you don’t mind so much. It’s goin’ crazy that’s bad.”
Hienie thought this over. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess that’s right.” He lit another cigarette. “Crazy guys give me the heebies.”
“You get used to it,” Joe said, rolling down the window to spit into the dark. “It’s the tough ones I don’t fancy.”
“Is she tough?” Hienie asked with morbid curiosity.
Joe hesitated. “Yeah,” he said; “I ain’t allowed to talk about the patients.” He slowed down as they approached a gas station. “Keep outta sight, pal,” he said, “I got my job to think about.”
Hienie sat back. “I could use a drink. Yes, sir, right now I could use a lotta drink.”
Joe’s face brightened. “I could get you somethin’ if you’ve the dough.”
“The right stuff. I don’t want any gut-rot. I want the right stuff.”
“Sure, the liquor’s the McCoy. The guy distils it himself right here. It’ll cost you a couple of bucks, but it’s panther’s spit all right.”
Hienie dug into his trouser pocket and found two dollars. “Get it,” he said briefly.