"Hmm. Eggs. Missing an ear and covered in burns? I'm thinking the guy got that from a hit, as opposed to a lab accident." Oleander mused. He leaned back on his stool and held up a hand for the bartender. "Whiskey. Like five shots. It's gonna be a long night."

"Okay. So. Eggs. Benedict Foreman. Yes, I know the guy. I shifted about 200 cc's of morphine for him awhile back. Once again, totally aboveboard, but you'd need a permit to check that, if you get me. Now, I only deal in public, at night, and if you want to find Eggs you'd need to get him out in the open. Maybe smoke one of his goons."