Four
There was a street not far from the import offices that was filled with cheap bars. Human derelicts, in various stages of stupor, wandered in and out of them or collapsed on the sidewalk. The street was full of the smell of stale whiskey and wine and stale clothing. A police wagon pulled up and a half dozen comatose men were loaded into it as I turned the corner.
I had to start somewhere. The first bar I came to was called the Shamrock. I turned and went inside. It was like a million bars all over the country. It smelled of beer and whiskey and smoke. Down at one end of the bar there were four men. All of them needed shaves and baths and fresh clothes and none of them needed, from the looks of them, the glasses of wine over which they nodded. The bartender didn’t look much better, b
