I thought for a moment. “There’s a little Scotch left.”

“A single malt? Glen Islay, something like that?”

“You found it and it’s gone, too.”

“ ’Fraid so, Bern.”

“Then we’re fresh out,” I said, “unless you want to knock off the Lavoris. I think it’s about sixty proof.”

“Child of a dog.”

“Carolyn-”

“You know something? I think I’m gonna go back to saying ‘son of a bitch.’ It may be sexist but it’s a lot more satisfying than ‘child of a dog.’ You go around saying ‘child of a dog’ and people don’t even know you’re cursing.”

“Carolyn, what are you doing here?”

“I’m dying of thirst, that’s what I’m doing.”

“You’re drunk.”

“No shit, Bernie.”

“You are. You drank two beers and a pint of Scotch and you’re shitfaced.”

She braced an elbow on her knee, rested her head in the palm of her hand and gave me a look. “In the first place,” she said, “it wasn’t a pint, it was maybe six ounces, which isn’t even half a pint. We’re talking about three drinks in a good bar or two drinks in a terrific bar. In the second place, it’s not nice to tell your best friend that she’s shitfaced. Pie-eyed, maybe. Half in the bag, three sheets to the wind, a little under the weather, all acceptable. But shitfaced, that’s not a nice thing to say to someone you love. And in the third place-”

“In the third place, you’re still drunk.”

“In the third place, I was drunk before I drank your booze in the first place.” She beamed triumphantly, then frowned. “Or should that be the fourth place, Bernie? I don’t know. It’s hell keeping track of all these places. In the fifth place I was drunk when I got back to my place, and then I had a drink before I came up to your place, so that makes me-”

“Out of place,” I suggested.

“I don’t know what it makes me.” She waved an impatient hand. “That’s not the important thing.”

“It’s not?”