“Listen, dimwit, instead of pulling this Flo Nightingale act, what the hell’s wrong in giving me a drink?”
McGuire put the bowl down on the table. “You’re right,” he said. “This business startled me.” He went over to the wagon and poured out two stiff Scotches. He was going to hold the glass to Duffy’s mouth, but Duffy took the glass from him roughly. “For the love of Mike,” Duffy said, “don’t you think I can help myself to Scotch?”
They both felt better after the drink. McGuire said, “Was that some woman you brought home who set about you like that?”
Duffy put his glass on the floor and sat up very slowly. He put his hands over his groin and his mouth twisted. McGuire watched him uneasily. “You all right?”
“Sure, I’m all right,” Duffy said. “I’m fine.”
“All right, tough guy, but you can take it easy for a moment. Here, lie back, will you?”
Duffy swung his feet over the side of the couch, then he stood up. As soon as his legs had to take his weight, he bent in half. He would have fallen forward if McGuire hadn’t taken his arm.
“I’m getting soft, I guess,” Duffy said, sweat starting out on his face.
McGuire led him back to the couch and sat him down.
“Quit this stuff,” he said impatiently. “Lie down, or I’ll smack your ears for you.”