<i>It had amounted to research</i>. That's what he hold himself as he walked up to the address he'd been given.<i>It may look like a dive, but that's exactly the kind of authentic, gritty feel that is lost in so much of modern literature. Great deeds consist in doing what deserves to be read, and writing what deserves to be written</i>he reminded himself.<br/><br/>He hadn't chosen particular to dress in a certain style, but it seemed that black and brooding was the new ... er ... black. And<a class="link link--external" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jJOSSBozkeE/Sfo2ueNvCLI/AAAAAAAAALM/u6G2DrKSPAA/s640/Hugh+Jackman+Black+Suit.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">a sharp black suit</a>always looked good on him. He watched the young man -<i>too brash and loud and sure of himself. He would feature in the book. An object lesson, perhaps, on why salmon do not play at being sharks</i>. He still wasn't used to the idea of a gun-check at a club, and so assumed that large African gentleman was after a tip. He fumbled in his jacket to produce a small denomination note absentmindedly whilst peering into the Emerald, his foot already tapping to the beat.<br/><br/>"Excusez-moi, my friend. I had not meant to offend" he said when the error of his ways was pointed out. He obliged by unbuttoning his jacket to reveal that he wasn't carrying a gun. "I never understood why someone would want to bring a gun to a place such as this" he said with an elegant Gallic shrug.<br/><br/>Once inside, he'd head for the bar. Better to blend in and have -something- in his hand.<i>But the beer here? Well, like sex in a canoe. Fucking close to water. And he'd have to get a receipt for it. </i>