As the taxi he was in turned a left corner into the busy street, Arnold unfolded the piece of paper in his hand, squinted his eye through the taxi's meagre interior light to make sure he was correct about the address. He spotted the bar's neon lights further ahead just as the taxi cruised along and indicated to the driver to stop. He got out, paid his fare, and then turned and walked through the glass doorway into the joint.
The interior was dark looked kind of haunting with its wavering lights. So much of the bar had changed since last time he was he here -- thirty-five years to the exact date -- but it still was the place. A couple of autographed photos of memorable Hollywood stars who'd been here before still hung on the walls. And he was delighted to see the bar still had a jukebox, just as it had been his first night here.
He approached the L-shaped bar and sat on a high stool and ordered for a Black Russian, the same drink he remembered he'd ordered that fateful night he'd stopped by here -- a Chief Bosun's mate then just off his ship for a fun night in the city. His drink arrived. He raised the glass to his lips, about to take a sip, when the corner of his eye caught someone staring at him.
The woman wore a sequined black evening dress with a matching scarf around her neck and she sat at the short corner of the L-shaped bar staring at him. She looked to be about the same age as him -- late fifties, though her smile made her seem younger; she looked so very elegant in her outfit.
"You don't look like you're from around here, stranger," the woman said to him.
"How can you tell?" he asked.
"I just know -- you've got a different walk."
Arnold left his chair and came and took one beside her. "Actually I'm not from around here. I just came into town."
