CHAPTER SIXTEENThe Bird & Trane was dark, noisy and crowded. To Lindsey it looked as if every college student in the Eastern half of the country had descended on the club, along with a healthy sprinkling of yuppies, a smattering of cyberpunks and a handful of revenants of the Jack Kerouac generation.
He’d paid a door charge and squeezed into the place. There was an ornate wooden bar. The long mirror behind it was decorated with Christmas wreaths, Santas and Rudolphs. The walls had been painted a flat black. Couples huddled over flickering candles in red jars on tiny round tables.
A drum kit and a set of microphones and speakers stood on a low bandstand at the far end of the room, but no musicians were in sight. Instead, recorded jazz squirmed it way into the room, to be battered and crus
