I said, "Look, Paul. If you're going to rage around at people for keeping tarts in their homes, start with your own, will you?"
He swung but he didn't follow hard and I ducked it.
So he began to sob, then—back in his chair.
I went to the bathroom, broke out a clean tumbler, dumped in the contents of three of the sodium amytal capsules Tom had prescribed for me, added water, swished it around, slogged back to the sitting room, poured in three fingers of whisky, and handed it to him. He took a deep, lunging breath and drank the whole business.
He sobbed a while longer.
Then, in a low, self-pitying voice, he began a rhapsody, or maybe threnody, on Marcia. The drink hit him, and the pills; he grew detailed and intimate; finally he said he'd lie down for an hour before going on with the search.
It was getting light by that time.