Prepping the IV

[Robin Landseadel]

	I poked at one of the long Russian cigarettes with a finger, then
	laid them in a neat row, side by side and squeaked my chair.
	You just don't throw away evidence. So they were evidence.
	Evidence of what? That a man occasionally smoked a stick of
	tea, a man who looked as if any touch of the exotic would
	appeal to him. On the other hand, lots of tough guys smoked
	marihuana, also lots of band musicians and high school kids,
	and nice girls who had given up trying. American hasheesh. A
	weed that would grow anywhere. Unlawful to cultivate now.
	That meant a lot in a country as big as the U.S.A.

	I sat there aud puffed my pipe and listened to the clacking
	typewriter behind the wall of my office and the bong-bong of the
	traffic lights changing on Hollywood Boulevard and spring
	rustling in the air, like a paper bag blowing along a concrete
	sidewalk.

	They were pretty big cigarettes, but a lot of Russians are, and
	marihuana is a coarse leaf. Indian hemp. American hasheesh.
	Evidence. God, what hats the women wear. My head ached.
	Nuts.

	Raymond Chandler, Farewell My Lovely