[Freddy leans back, one arm stretching across the back of his booth seat, the other just bends for him to puff at his cigarette. There's an ashtray on the partition, he's not rude enough to tap it on the floor.]

Medically yeah, somethin' about white cell counts or whatever. I've got a clean bill of health. [But as for grudges...he licks his teeth.] He coulda fuckin' killed me, but it wasn't his fault...

[Right?]