The January wind poured out of the Hollywood Hills like white wine and stung his cheeks. It had to be warmer inside. He walked down the three steps.
The crowd was a surprise, larger than he’d expected. Considering the near-mystical affectation for dirt and filth by today’s generation, he should have known better. He took an empty table in a front corner, forsaken because you had to lean outward to see
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more than hah* the performing area that passed for a stage. He put down the stub of his cigar. One fast glance around the club told him all he’d need to know -about it and all he’d ever want to.
The “fresh flowers” on the tables might qualify as passable lichens. The nicest thing one could say about the rest of the place was that it wouldn’t be hurt by a new coat of paint. Naturally^ in keeping with proper atmosphere, it was too dark to see your own pants.
A young man with blond hair like Aryan seaweed appeared at Sam’s side, pad in hand. He had a dreamy, disaffected look, probably from trying to study all day and work all night. Sam felt a smidgen of sympathy for him.
“Scotch and soda.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the youth murmured. “We don’t serve hard liquor. Can I get you a hot cider?”
Saints preserve us, hot cider! Parker would have laughed, only it was bad for his ulcer. That Lipson kid had been so enthusiastic about this place! Well, he nodded imperceptibly, he’d learned his lesson. Last tip he took from that quarter of the “in” people.
“Can I maybe get a Heinekin’s?”
“Not on tap, sir.*’