At a few minutes after four, Johnny Liddell leaned against the bar in the Sherbrooke Lounge. Most of the tables were occupied by girls whose hair ranged all shades of the spectrum. They were all identical, as if turned out of the same mold—all luxury models with outstanding equipment; all dressed in the height of expensive fashion. They were all slender to the point of thinness, like high-fashion models, all accentuated their eyes with a clever coat of make-up and played down their lips with a light lipstick. It was like looking into a many-sided mirror to see many reproductions of the same face. They had one other characteristic in common—all of them seemed to come to life when the telephone rang, waited expectantly to be called.
When it did ring, the bartender would take the call, motio
