The LED bulbs that framed the roofline of the establishment twinkled just right. The brass fixtures near the entrance—the handrails and lamp posts—were lightly polished for a hint of class. The outside of the building attracted customers like insects drawn to light. The dark interior, the preponderance of royal burgundy carpeting and walnut paneled walls, gave it a sense of prestige. It was a place where secrets could be kept, right out in the open. The main room of the restaurant was a well-heeled steakhouse which served—as Charlie the owner liked to claim—the best pieces of meat between New York and Texas. On the left side of the massive room, behind two large archways, was a bar that stretched the depth of the restaurant, the stash of alcohol running the gambit from Grey Goose to resurgent PBR. On the right side of the restaurant, behind massive doorways adorned with red velvet curtains, was a private party room that seated a hundred comfortably. The clientele at Good Time Charlie varied from pure-hearted meat-eaters to average johns looking for top-grade meat of a different nature.
