Harm Deacon

The air is thick with juniper, citrus rind, and the sour-sweet tang of Angelino dreams. Neon numbers, a bloodstain that glows as if radioactive against darkened glass: 1200, West Hollywood. Terrazzo under wan lights, brass rails glinting like incisors displayed in a reliquary. The place should be a mausoleum at eleven on a weekday night, but a pack of two dozen middle-aged professionals has colonized the banquettes and barstools. Wrapped in expensive textiles, they laugh too loudly and swig too quickly.