After a few minutes distraction – first with some slick, important-acting guy who I surmised was the owner, and then Pinky – the barkeep turned his attention to me. Third in the list of priorities, I thought: a familiar ranking and one I was pretty comfortable with.

“So what’ll it be,” he asked, “red, white or clear?”

“Russian. White,” I said, feeling a little peptic and in need of something creamy.

Pinky shot me a suspicious glance, but the barkeep just shrugged. I watched his massive hands working the bar with the ease and dexterity of a virtuoso pianist as he fixed my drink, and contemplated the inequity of existence as Fedora-raincoat disappeared into the dining area with some flame-haired beauty, her radiant appearence a jarring counterpoint to his wrinkled suit and creased face, both of which looked in need of a steam and press.

“Enjoy, fella.”

I took my drink and slugged it in two great gulps, feeling the world take on a peachy glow as coffee cream chased vodka down my throat.

“Again,” I said.