I’m okay, he said. I’ll be okay.

I looked pointedly at the two patches of white gauze where his arm and leg used to be and raised an eyebrow. After all, the wounds were still fresh enough to be bandaged, and at the very least Chutsky had to be feeling somewhat weak.

He looked down at his two stumps, and he did seem to slump just a little and become slightly smaller for a moment. I’ll be fine, he said, and he straightened up a bit. Let’s get going. And he seemed so tired and sad that I didn’t have the heart to say anything except, All right.

He hopped back to the passenger door of my car, leaning on my shoulder, and as I helped ease him into the seat the passengers of the old Buick trooped out carrying beer and pork rinds. The driver smiled and nodded at me. I smiled back and closed the door. Crocodilios, I said, nodding at Chutsky.

Ah, the driver said back. Lo siento. He got behind the wheel of his car, and I walked around to get into mine.

Chutsky had nothing at all to say for most of the drive. Right after the interchange onto I-95, however, he began to tremble badly. Oh fuck, he said. I looked over at him. The drugs, he said. Wearing off. His teeth began to chatter and he snapped them shut. His breath hissed out and I could see sweat begin to form on his bald face.

Would you like to reconsider the hospital? I asked.

Do you have anything to drink? he asked, a rather abrupt change of subject, I thought.

I think there’s a bottle of water in the backseat, I said helpfully.

Drink, he repeated. Some vodka, or whiskey.

I don’t generally keep any in the car, I said.

Fuck, he said. Just get me to my hotel.

I did that. For reasons known only to Chutsky, he was staying at the Mutiny in Coconut Grove. It had been one of the first luxury high-rise hotels in the area and had once been frequented by models, directors, drug runners, and other celebrities. It was still very nice, but it had lost a little bit of its cachet as the once-rustic Grove became overrun with luxury high-rises. Perhaps Chutsky had known it in its heyday and stayed there now for sentimental reasons. You really had to be deeply suspicious of sentimentality in a man who had worn a pinkie ring.

We came down off 95 onto Dixie Highway, and I turned left on Unity and rolled on down to Bayshore. The Mutiny was a little ways ahead on the right, and I pulled up in front of the hotel. Just drop me here, Chutsky said.

I stared at him. Perhaps the drugs had affected his mind. Don’t you want me to help you up to your room?