IT still rained, a cold sweat out of the darkness. Street-light reflections aimed daggers along the narrow Brickfields streets. Mostly the streets were deserted, but here and there loped a black figure, long-limbed, padded-shouldered, dripping trilby slanted forward. Paradise Street wore a new aspect. At the top end the club’s sign burned red and blue. The street surface receded glimmering towards it between lines of lightless parked cars. The cars were mostly old and decrepit and jazzed with paint and stick-on labels. Several were bumperless and without grilles and only a few retained their hub-caps. Gently drove through the lines and parked bumpers-on to Sharkey’s red Consul. He waited. A big-shouldered black man came out of the vestibule and down the steps. He came to a stand, eye-whites showing, taking in Gently, the car. Gently dropping his window. The man ambled up to him. He pushed his face close to the window. ‘Man,’ he said. ‘You just knows you cain’t park any place round here.’ ‘Oh yes, I think so,’ Gently said.
