The cab is a 1935 Buick, darling of taxi companies and police departments. It has a front end like a rhino, a butt like an elephant and a back seat like a cavern. I get in the cavern and shut the door.

The driver holds out a mug; I deposit my toothpick. He revs the engine, lifts the clutch, shifts, and drops it again. Off we go, all three blocks to Second Street Park. “$100,” he says. His rates are horrifically steep, except that they include dope. I pull some bills out of my jacket and count out $100 in the yellow light from a street lamp. I still have an awful lot of money.

“19. Have a sucker,” he says, holding out another mug.

“No, thanks,” I shiver.

“Take it.” I do as I’m told, get out, and he drives away into the night. He very nicely left me by a park bench, but I’m too messed up to use it. I pace in a lurching kind of way, hoping that I’m different from the thing in my mouth.

An eternity later, cab 19 approaches. “Do you want my sucker?” I ask.

“Nah, it’s yours.” And we’re off to—somewhere.