Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. He knocked over the pitcher of thil , but it didn't matter. The pitcher was empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, not very hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough to spring them. "We," he said, "are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up and down the drain." He added, as an afterthought, "Destitute." I looked at him. I said sourly, "You're kidding!" "Kidding." Shannon put his elbows on