Is far from here. Jeb shook his

At him as he pulled his jacket over his head and garsoniere de inchiriat bucuresti ran towards the sidewalk, disappearing into the crowd. The gas lights lining the walkway seemed to flicker and moan in the rain, casting thin shadows upon well-dressed people and wet stone streets. bucuresti Whatever blood had google remained on Jeb's cool blue tweed blazer was now washed away, feet dancing in the slippery wet mess as garsoniere de inchiriat bucuresti the lone figure turned away from the crowd and ran blindly around the next corner into a dark alley, the howl of sirens nipping at his heels. A bright electric sign up ahead shown in large pink letters, The Owl's Trumpet, and below, in much smaller, nearly illegible letters, Shoe Repair. There was a faint air of perfume in the breeze and one could almost garsoniere de inchiriat bucuresti hear the led sounds of a piano playing. Jeb pounded on the door and a small slider opened to reveal a pair of dark, glimmering eyes. Good evening, sir. Pword please? Open the door, Jerry, it's me! Jeb shouted in an anno voice. The dark eyes didn't blink. Pword? Jeb groaned, mugumbo, and the dark e man closed the blind and opened the door. As Jeb entered the speakeasy the swirling jazz hit him like a ton of bricks. He followed the thumping beats and drunken laughter coming from down garsoniere de inchiriat bucuresti the hallway to the padded, red velvet doors. He pushed them open and like a fever he was enveloped by the thick scent of perfume, bourbon and . In the left corner there was a beautifully gilded stage on which Effie Proudout stood singing, her shimmering, jet black hair pinned back in a tight bob, skin and lips pale, small patches of rouge on her cheeks. The drunken crowd was howling and dancing wildly as a twelve piece jazz band backed up every smoldering, erotic note of her whiskey stained voice. Her dark eyes lay fixated upon the piano player as she sang out the lyrics to a jazzed up version of Ain't Misbehavin'. Over to the right side of the wild, raucous room sat the bar. Its cherry and mahogany frame decorated with gold leafed mirrors and turquoise and silver plaques inscribed with clichéd inscriptions like Sing! and Live! Three tuxedo wearing old men, two of them bald and one of them nearly so, sat at the bar alongside a regal looking woman in her mid-forties who had evidently refused to turn over her rac fur coat to the doorman. Behind the counter stood Jeb's old war buddy, the bartender, Sam Ammatto. Sam! Jeb called, as he sat down next to the giant rac. Hey old boy, how are ya? Sam grinned nervously. He was a young man, about the same age as Jeb. Amber eyes, dark brown skin, and a flat, close cropped head of hair. He wore a cost-more-than-it-was-worth silk shirt, and flat ironed gray pants. He was doing well for himself in the booming post prohibition bar business, but Jeb knew him from the war days, the dirt poor days, and at the moment he was the only person he found himself willing to trust. So how it goes, man? Sam asked as he poured from a long, clear bottle. Jeb grimaced. Could be better. Sam put the gl of vodka down in front of him and sighed with the tone of a mother learning her son got in a fight at school, what happened? Jeb downed the vodka in one shot. Nothing. Just, uh, just you know, bookies, loan sharks. Sam looked concerned. Damnit old boy, I keep telling you, you can't mess with