The first time I
laid eyes on Terry Lennox he was drunk in a Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith outside
the terrace of The Dancers. The parking lot attendant had brought the car out
and he was still holding the door open because Terry Lennox's left foot was
still dangling outside, as if he had forgotten he had one. He had a
young-looking face but his hair was bone white. You could tell by his eyes that
he was plastered to the hairline, but otherwise he looked like any other nice
young guy in a dinner jacket who had been spending too much money in a joint
that exists for that purpose and for no other.
There was a girl
beside him. Her hair was a lovely shade of dark red and she had a distant smile
on her lips and over her shoulders she had a blue mink that almost made the
Rolls-Royce look like just another automobile. It
didn't quite. Nothing can.
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