pounding music hammered through Siegel’s skin. The smell of liquor and sweat seeped through her pores.Her friend with the clone moustache was really letting her have it, his whole philosophy of living and loving. “Nothing beats good sex,” he said.“Nothing,” Siegel agreed.“I was married for eight years but it wasn’t good sex. Good sex is what it’s all about.”Siegel’s ears were filled with the roar of the place. She excused herself, said she’d be right back. She found Richards on a bench monitoring the stream of members coming into the bar. Sound, fury, and movement poured by in a smellifluent cascade.He slid her a glance, motioning her to look toward the bar. A blond, heavyset man with a droopy moustache was standing six feet away.“The handyman,” she said. “Claude Loring.”And then she saw something else.A man was moving with a shambling gait away from the bar. He had two wings of black hair over his ears, and he had dark, haunted eyes. He was badly out of shape in his Jockey shorts.Siegel sat there right on the brink of recognition and then a little memory popped out.
