He’s got a couple of battered crates piled in front of him, and he’s playing solitaire on them; you can hear the slap of the cards as you cross the street. It’s Cerberus at the gate; he looks like a pair of extra heads would fit fine on that thick neck. In deference to the heat, he’s wearing just an undershirt with his dark trousers and a straw boater. He doesn’t look up when you pause in front of him. You flatten out the crumpled piece of paper in your hand and read the penciled address. It’s the same as the one over the door, but the bouncer doesn’t move, doesn’t even acknowledge your presence. You don’t blame him; you look just like all the other derelicts in town, and probably smell just as bad. Washing up in a public restroom sink doesn’t do much for the problem, and you’re wearing the same clothes you’ve had on for three days. “Help you?” he finally asks, not looking up from his game. You look down at the spread. He’s already fanning out the three cards for the next draw, but you say, “Black five on red six.”
