I hung up on that.

Mickey said:

“You were going to give me the what’s what on the Brand slaughter.”

I said:

“I wasn’t. I started to say it oughtn’t to be hard to trace Rolff⁠—running around with a fractured skull and probably a lot of bandages. Suppose you try it. Give Hurricane Street a play first.”

Mickey grinned all the way across his comedian’s red face, said, “Don’t tell me anything that’s going on⁠—I’m only working with you,” picked up his hat, and left me.

I spread myself on the bed, smoked cigarettes end to end, and thought about last night⁠—my frame of mind, my passing out, my dreams, and the situation into which I woke. The thinking was unpleasant enough to make me glad when it was interrupted.