You ignore the guys that call out when you step from the car—they see the Beemer and think you’re fresh meat. Farther up the street, a couple girls notice you and start to advance, predators on the prowl. You think you can just pass by—if they can’t see your eyes, they won’t stop—but when one of them hikes up her skirt, exposing dusky flesh, you cross the street. You’re not here for anything they have to offer.
Another block and you see the familiar sign. The V’s burned out, the Rstutters, and most of the time it just reads Place, not Palace, because that first Ahas a tendency to wink when you walk by. Like now, it’s out, and you watch it from the corner of your eye as you open the door and enter the shop. It stays off.