I rock up to Ganzo’s place early and there’s no one around when the bell above the door announces my arrival. My boots hit the wonky stairs and each footstep sounds like a dog being squashed under the tyres of a haul truck. Paper lanterns swing from the slanted ceiling and cast an amber glow on the long oak bar and the faded leather cushioning of the bar stools. The walls look like they’re being held together by the ancient newspaper cuttings that cover their surface. The remainder of the room is occupied by a tattered corner sofa and stained round tables. It’s the calm between the dinner rush and the indomitable flood of drunks, the best time to wet your lips in the Rivers.
‘What are you drinking, Dag?’
Ganzo’s standing behind the bar just the way I left him before I went away; straight
