And Murder is One of Them
As soon as Jimbob stepped inside the upscale downtown Bar his senses were assailed. The pleasant smells of freshly poured beer, top shelf bourbon mixed in with an occasional whiff of Chanel No.5 seemed set the background for the visual effects of crystal chandeliers, polished hardwoods, velvet benches, soft leather covered chairs, and the bold design of the grand staircase leading up to the frizzy-haired piano player.
His ears were gratified by the sounds of honky tonk and blues emanating from from the eighty-eight. When he reached out with his fingers to touch the Bar surface, he was warmly rewarded with the slightly sensuous feel of hammered copper. Two words had brought him here to this four story brick testament to grandness.
Murder was one of those words.
Jimbob stepped up to the bar, snagged himself a soda water with a twist of lime and stepped outside for a smoke. Within a few minutes the frizzy haired piano player joined him and the two started up a conversation. The keyboard stroker turned out to be a Jewish guy from Detroit and the discussion soon turned from music to the old days in the city. As they talked and watched the traffic streak by, it occurred to Jimbob that time was also passing by, and he best take his Nikon back inside and grab some snapshots before the crowd split up.