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"
I
thought
you
were
my
friends
!
You
didn
’
t
raise
a
hand
for
me
.
Fair
-
weather
oysters
,
fair
-
weather
pickles
,
fair
-
weather
cake
-
mix
.
No
more
unimus
for
you
.
Wonder
what
Saint
Francis
would
say
if
a
dog
bit
him
,
or
a
bird
crapped
on
him
.
Would
he
say
,
‘
Thank
you
,
Mr
.
Dog
,
grazie
tanto
,
Signora
Bird
’
?
"
He
turned
his
head
toward
a
rattling
and
a
knocking
and
a
pounding
on
the
alley
door
,
went
quickly
through
the
storeroom
,
muttering
,
"
More
customers
than
if
we
were
open
.
"
Joey
Morphy
staggered
in
,
clutching
his
throat
.
"
For
God
’
s
sake
,
"
he
groaned
.
"
Succor
—
or
at
least
Pepsi
-
Cola
,
for
I
dieth
of
dryth
.
Why
is
it
so
dark
in
here
?
Are
mine
eyes
failething
too
?
"
"
Shades
pulled
down
.
Trying
to
discourage
thirsty
bankers
.
"
He
led
the
way
to
the
cold
counter
and
dug
out
a
frosted
bottle
,
uncapped
it
,
and
reached
for
another
.
"
Guess
I
’
ll
have
one
too
.
"
Joey
-
boy
leaned
against
the
lighted
glass
and
poured
down
half
the
bottle
before
he
lowered
it
.
"
Hey
!
"
he
said
.
"
Somebody
’
s
lost
Fort
Knox
.
"
He
picked
up
the
billfold
.
"
That
’
s
a
little
gift
from
the
B
.
B
.
D
.
and
D
.
drummer
.
He
’
s
trying
to
hustle
some
of
our
business
.
"
"
Well
,
he
ain
’
t
hustling
peanuts
.
This
here
’
s
quality
,
son
.
Got
your
initials
on
it
,
too
,
in
gold
.
"
"
It
has
?
"
"
You
mean
you
don
’
t
know
?
"
