Nico’s voice floats over the bar as softly as the falling snow onto Manhattan. I close my eyes an dream of another time. The place would have to do.
I take a sip of the Lagavulin. The bottle is a finger from the bottom, probably the same bottle that Fat Ronnie had poured my first out of nineteen years ago.
Fat’s isn’t the kind of bar that serves too much 18-year-old scotch. It’s the kind of bar that managed to survive…