"I need my dressing changed, Doc," I said. "And maybe a shot to keep me going."
"I'm not a dope peddler," he snapped. "You've got the wrong place."
"Just a little medication—whatever's usual. It's a burn."
"Who told you to come here?"
I looked at him meaningfully. "The word gets around."
He glared at me, gnashed his plates, then gestured toward a black-varnished door. "Go right in there."
He gaped at my arm when the bandages were off. I took a quick glance and wished I hadn't.
"How did you do this?"
"Smoking in bed," I said. "Have you got ... something that...."
He caught me before I hit the floor, got me into a chair. Then he had that Scotch he'd been wanting, gave me a shot as an after-thought, and looked at me narrowly.