"Everyone is going to be dead drunk tonight," he said as he took the cigarette, tone that of casual conversation. It could be about anything at all. Goodnight's weight leaned into Billy's, held the cigarette by his lips but didn't take a drag yet.

"If they even make it up the stairs at all. They may lie where they fall tonight."

He'd paid attention: Vasquez, Faraday, and Horne were as good as on the floor. Red Harvest hadn't been drinking but he was the silent type, and Goodnight wasn't even sure of how much English the boy knew or spoke, or if he was even inclined to spend the night under roof.