"Drink up," said the young man. He had no color in his voice. Its accent wasn't local, but Kintyre couldn't place the exact region. More or less Midwestern. Chicago?
It was a good excuse to get his back up. "I don't see where you have any authority in the matter," said Kintyre.
"Mother of God," whispered Guido frantically across the table. "Scram!"
The young man stood droop-lidded for a moment, considering. Then he said to Guido: "Okay. Another booth."
"Won't you join us here?" asked Kintyre. "You can say your say when I've gone."
The young man thought it over for a second or two. He shrugged faintly and sat down beside Kintyre, a couple of feet away. Shakily, Guido poured a drink into the unused glass of ice.
"Th-th-this is—Larkin," he said. "Terry Larkin. This is Professor Kintyre. He was a friend of my brother, is all."
"Are you from out of town, Mr. Larkin?" said Kintyre.
The young man took out a pack of cigarettes. It was the container for a standard brand, but the homemade cylinders inside were another matter. He lit one and sat back, unheeding of the whisky.
Kintyre would not have thought an ordinary drug addict anything to reckon with: the effects are too ruinous. But in spite of all the lurid stories, marijuana is a mild sort of dope, which leaves more control than alcohol and probably does less physiological damage than tobacco. If it came to trouble, Larkin was not going to be inconvenienced by a reefer or two.