“Christ, my head is pounding,” he said.

My head was hurting too, but I was still under the protection of a painkiller and alcohol cocktail. I handed Blout the pint I’d picked up for him. He took it and drank the thing down like sugar water. That should do the trick, I thought. If it didn’t, I’d get him out of there, like it or not. Even if I had to knock him out, I was not going to have a repeat of Gundy. Not with Blout anyway.

Mo’Lock was shifting on his feet with an expression that I’d never seen before—discomfort. I doubted very seriously that the ghoul was constipated. It had to be his head.

I went to his side. “What’s up, Mo’? How’re you feeling?”

He looked at me. “I’m not sure . . . it’s been so long, but I think I have a headache.”

I took the other pint out of my coat pocket. I’d drank some, but most of it was still there. I forced the bottle into his big white hands.

“Take it. Drink,” I demanded.

The ghoul looked at the bottle and grimaced. He shook his head.

“It can’t hurt you,” I said. “Better safe than sorry.”

The ghoul was a sucker for clichés. He looked at the bottle like a boxer staring down his opponent. I guess I understood. It had been over a century since he had a drink and his first one was about to be some cheap rotgut.

I glanced over at Blout and saw his face was lazy and calm. His eyes were bloodshot and hooded. He had the look of a man with a poisoned brain—our best defense.

“AAAAAHHHHGGGHHHH!!”

Blout and I jumped, simultaneously pulling out our weapons, but it was just Mo’Lock. He’d swigged the entire bottle in one huge gulp and now stood swaying with wide, crazy eyes. I lowered my gun first and with my free hand slowly guided Blout’s down to his side. He wasn’t so sure there was no reason to shoot.

Blout and I stood by as the ghoul went through a series of shudders and twitches, until gradually the liquor slipped through his ancient veins and his dark-circled eyes reddened.

I waited a few minutes, then took the bottle from him. “How does it feel?” I asked.

“I feel stupid.”

“Perfect.”

I rubbed my head and looked from one bleary partner to the other. Blout was trying to find the end of a cigar and having a hard time of it. He’d chugged his entire bottle. Mo’Lock was pressing a finger into his forehead and sticking his tongue out in response to each touch. I sighed. Here we were, the city’s heroes. We were doomed.

There was no use wasting any more time. I picked up the safe deposit box and headed into the mouth of the drainage pipe. When I turned, no one else had moved. They were just staring at me blankly.

“Well,” I said, “Time to move, you buckin’ fastards!”