It was one thing to chuckle at Visscher—a man who chose to stay sober in a hole like Pugsy's deserved a little chastising—but to keep it going, dragging Tuco into it, too? His smile was gone, expression locked right down. He took another sip of his whiskey, then swiped at his nose with the back of his hand—a gesture that wasn't so much through necessity as it was a nervous tic.

"Hey," he said loudly, shifting his eyes from the mocker back to the mocked. "You think Pinky over there's okay?" He drew his face into an exaggerated parody of concern, and turned to point. "I mean, I don't know... he looks a lot like he's choking." A beat. "He doesn't sound too good, either."