My hair stank of cigar smoke and my mouth tasted like the floor of the Saratoga. “Oh, Eddie,” I moaned, sitting up and resting my forehead on my knees. “What have I done?” “‘Nevermore!’” “Never,” I vowed. “I’m never drinking again.” Then I remembered I had a performance that night, to be followed by a séance with some less-than-charming Dodge City types, and I threw myself back on the pillows. I thought I saw Horrible Hank leering at me from the mirror on the wall. “Perfect,” I said. “Join the party.” I forced myself to pull on some clothes, stumble downstairs, and walk down Front Street in search of a chemist. On my way, I passed Beatty & Kelley Restaurant, and just the smell of the bacon and fried eggs nearly brought me to my knees. I found the City Drug, on the west side of the Saratoga. “What’s the matter?” “I’m in distress,” I said, leaning against the counter. “Well, come on over here and sit down before you fall over,” a man of about thirty with thick spectacles and a halo of sandy hair said.
