Two blocks away Gezza slowed down the Benz to a crawl with the engine rumbling like an old smoker in the stuffy night air.
Hoodie pulled it up and over his greasy hair and the Playbook was wedged in his spine like a bad tattoo that was itching to be peeled.
"Told Marie I'd bail on this gig. Yeah, right. Liar, liar, pants on fire."
The street behind The Vault smelled like a urinal after happy hour, the damp, urine-impregnated bricks mixed with the grease of the fryer which had stuck to his nostrils as unpleasant perfume.
The sign overhead flickered pathetically with neon, the "V" lifeless, the AULT stuttering like a stilted heartbeat in some of the cheap-skate horror movies.
It was not only dark in the alley, it was also a crippling blow of urban decay, graffiti bleeding down the walls like open infections, piles filled with water that reflected the neon in rainy rainbows that smelled slightly of motor oil and utter desperation.
