— No shit?

— I barely got out, man.

He takes another look at the severe scorch on my face and nods his head.

— Bull.

— Sunlamp?

He squints his eyes. I hold up my right hand in pledge. He shakes his head.

— Hey, man, ya done wanna tell me, ya done gotta, but hey, done fuck wit' me.

I've been working on Billy's accent since I met him, and still don't know where the hell he's from. He claims to be Queens born and bred, but he sounds more like a French Canadian educated in Boston.

I shrug my shoulders in surrender.

— Kitchen accident. No shit, I fell asleep with my head in the microwave.

He laughs and wipes at the bar with the rag he keeps tucked in

his belt.

— Yeah, baked ya fuckin' brains too, bub. Whad ya drinkin?

Blood.

-'Bout a bourbon? Whatever's on the rail is fine.

— Heaven Hill comin' up.

He grabs a rocks glass and fills it with whiskey while I look the place over. The Niagara is skinny around the bar then opens up into a big back room, but that area is kept roped off until the crowd builds up later and the cocktail waitress comes on. No sign of Philip. Billy plops the drink down in front of me.

— There ya go, Mr. Marlowe, one cheap bourbon onna house.

— Thanks. Seen Philip around?

— Naw, not yet. He'll be in later.

— You see him first, don't tell him I'm looking.

Billy nods his head.

— Sure thing. He owe ya money, something?

— Something.

— Well look, guy owes me money, two hundred fiddy and change. Get my coin outta him while yer shakin' 'im down, an I'll wipe yer tab.

— I ain't got a tab here, I pay for my drinks.

— That's right. Get my cash an I'll see ya ain't got no tab the next month or so. Everythin' onna house. Even the top shelf, you start ta feelin' fancy.