Back in my cocaine days, I frequented a dealer named Ivan. He was a big Russian with a thick, formidable, Stalinesque mustache and a laugh like galloping horses. I once bought a gram from him and accidentally handed him too much money. Those were heady days and my math got scrambled. Ivan noticed the error and gave me the extra twenty back, saying “Honesty is best policy!” in his deep dark forest of an accent. 

I thanked him with sincere gratitude and returned home to fin...