I tell you, whether the kid knows it or not, he's real sick. Not that anyone's going to listen to me. Ohhh, no. I'm always predicting some sort of doom and gloom, so of course it can't be true.
Look, I hope as much as the next guy I'm just wrong. Hell, I hope more than the next guy, or any other guy or girl or hooker from uptown. He's my brother. He's all I've got, especially since... I care about the kid, all right? Now, you get that through your head, and maybe you'll start to see where I'm coming from.
Of course, the old miser won't ever see it. He's been what you might call willfully blinded. It's a tragic state to be in, very depressing, and impossible to shake. He won't do a damn thing until the kid's laid out on the floor, and then Christ knows what'll happen. That bastard'll probably chuck the kid into the sea, save himself the cost of a funeral. Christ.
Then again, the kid might prefer that, the way he talks.
It's gonna be a long night, with no help of companionship, if you get my meaning. Not that it'd do much good, but it'd be a distraction, anyway. Got a bottle with me, but I just don't think it'll do the trick.