Even in a town as small as Circumstance, it took no time at all to find the right sort of people for the right kind of things. For Jack Draper, the right kinds of things were illicit narcotics. He parked in a city lot, paid his fare like a good citizen, and bound off in search of the right people.
On a downtown side street, he noticed a bar called Fat Johnny’s. Upon closer observation, he witnessed a man, unsteady on his feet, pissing on his shoes in the alley beside the establishment. Here we are, thought Jack, and walked in as if he owned the place.
Two small fans on the cracked ceiling laboriously pushed the stale air from one place to another and back again. The windows had been painted black and the only light came from a couple of neon beer logos, and a scattering of bare bulbs that tried to force a little illumination through their cigarette tar-encrusted casings. It was just how the patrons liked it; when they laughed, as they did often and boisterously, the pain in their eyes and the holes in their souls were safely concealed by the gloom.