“Separates the men from the boys,” said Hartman.

“Way down deep in the jungle,” said Chicago, “we have the leper colony. We have Hansen’s disease. That which we call leprosy by any other name would smell just as sweet: indeterminate leprosy, tuberculoid leprosy, lepromatous leprosy, dimorphous leprosy. ‘What’s in a name?’ ”

To Koestler’s astonishment, Chicago pulled out a fat joint and torched it up. He took a long drag and passed it to the other American.

“I did a rotation at the leprosarium in Carville, Louisiana, when I was in the Navy,” Chicago said. “I learned how to understand the prevailing mentality of the patient suffering from Hansen’s disease.”

“Put yourself in their ‘prosthetic’ shoes, did you?” Hartman said.

“The kid’s right,” Chicago said. “You’re a hostile person. Shut up and listen. I mean, these patients are in denial until a white coat gives it to them straight. Zombie denial, man. You should see the look on their face. It’s not a look like you’ve got cancer, which is a good one, instant shock. The you’ve-got-Hansen’s look is more like, ‘I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth—’ ”

“I know that look,” Koestler said. “I see it every morning whilst I shave. Jules, the man knows Shakespeare.”

“I suppose a leper colony in Africa is a hut made out of buffalo shit—”

“In your leper colony over there in the States,” Hartman said, “are all the lepers bloody nigs?”

“You really are a racist, aren’t you?” Indiana said.

Koestler attempted to deflect this inquiry. “I believe the current phraseology is ‘African-American,’ Jules, or, if you must, ‘black.’ ”

“Some are black. Some are white. Some are Hispanic,” Chicago said. “That word of yours is not in my vocabulary, and if you say it again—”

“You’ll what?”

“Jules, please,” said Koestler. “Don’t be bloody uncouth.”

Hartman pitched his head forward and pretended to sob over his cards. “I’m an uncouth ruffian, I won’t deny it.” He gulped down some whiskey and said, “When that faggot over there wants to fly home for ballet lessons, it won’t be in my plane.”

“Aryan Brotherhood,” Indiana said.

Koestler raised his hand to silence the doctor while he turned on Chicago. “Where on earth did you score that joint?” he asked. “Did you give it to them, Jules?”

“Actually, it was your man, Johnson,” Indiana said. “God, am I ever high. Everything is so…surreal.”

“Johnson? That bugger!” Koestler said. “He’s got his hand in everything.”

Koestler put the wet end of the joint to his lips and took a tentative puff. As he did, Chicago pulled out another and lit it.

“Fuck,” Koestler said. He took another hit. A much bigger one.