I yawned, poured coffee, reached for a cigarette. I was lighting it when Davis lumbered in.
“Hi,” I said, grinning at him.
“For crying out loud!” he said, staring at me. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“Nor did I,” I said, waving him to the only chair in the little room. “Got any whisky on you?”
He produced a half-pint bottle from his hip pocket and handed it over.
“I was sure worried,” he said, sitting down and mopping his face. “I’m getting cast-iron arteries through you.”
I poured a couple of inches of the Scotch into my coffee and gave him back the bottle. He took a swig, sighed, shoved the bottle back into his pocket.
“Well, come on,” he said impatiently. “Give. You ought to be dead.”
I told him.
“I’ll be damned for a Red Indian,” he exclaimed when I was through.