In the basement of an old brownstone was a window painted in primary blues and reds; above it a sign, “Double Eagle Kretchma.”
Gypsy music was filtering out on the heated air.
“It looks like a joint to me.”
“I like joints—when I’m in the mood for dirt. Let’s go in.”
It was dark with a few couples sliding around on the little dance floor. A sad fat man with blue jowls, wearing a Russian blouse of dark green silk, greasy at the cuffs, came toward them and took them to a booth.
“You wish drinks, good Manhattan? Good Martini?”
“Do you have any real vodka?” Lilith was tapping a cigarette.
“Good vodka. You, sir?”
Stan said, “Hennessy, Three Star, and plain water.”