I’m at that topless place on George with Jeremy. It’s a squint of a place with a dirty strip of bar that runs the length of one wall, paralleled by poles that aren’t used support the roof. The red lights are bright and the girls are dim but I don’t hear anybody asking to see their wits, anyway. I order two beers that cost more than most of the implants on show. Jeremy sways a little as I pass him the drink, blinking his thanks with lugubrious lids. Somewhere in back the Beatles are playing Can’t Buy Me Love.

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