It was 6.30 in the morning. He sniffed. The air was heavy with the familiar stench of spilled liquor and overflowing ashtrays. Tables stood in a semicircle around the bar with half-filled glasses stacked on top. A strip light had shattered over one of the pool tables in the far corner, showering the red felt with splinters of glass and a thin coating of neon powder. Lying just next to the table was one of the pool cues. It had been snapped in half during a brawl, broken into a jagged spike. Fabrice stared at the carnage, whistling softly to himself. He felt the soles of his tan loafers stick slightly to the concrete floor as he walked over to the bar. He had just showered and was looking fresh in a pair of pressed white slacks and a laundered cream shirt. Picking his way round a fallen bar stool, he found the youngest of his barmen fast asleep, with the side of his head slumped against the counter. Fabrice pulled him up by the neck of his T-shirt. ‘What’s their tab so far?’ he asked without preamble.
