“Hell no! In th’ back room there’s a cot. Been sleepin’ there myself sometimes, since m’wife passed along back in ’53. December of ’53 it was. I’ll wake ye, come supper.”
“Thanks.”
With the hunger gnawing at his stomach, Nick took a cellophane wrapped pie from the counter and began eating it. He handed the old man a quarter.
“S’funny,” the old man said, ringing up the sale, “ye don’t smell like a drunk. Ought t’be some likker smell to y’son.”
“I was drinking vodka,” Nick countered, wondering how he had pulled that from a mind that could not remember his past. He took another bite of the pie as the old man gave him his change.
“Bad stuff, vodka. That’s th’ slop them Russian hassocks drink, ain’t it?”
“I think so.”
“Well, it ain’t for Andy Hocum. Them hassocks can have it.”
[p19]
Nick was saved from further conversation by a new station wagon pulling into the pumps. A young woman, dressed in a suit, cut the engine and honked the horn briefly. Andy waved and headed for the door.
“Get some shut eye, son. I’ll wake y’ later.”