I consider consulting the bartender, but one look at the queue of thirsty drinkers in the way changes my mind. I decide to case the joint instead. The music becomes even louder as I shuffle through the parlor and into a dance hall. The band must be somewhere close by, but the lighting is too dim, and I can't see much through the crowd.
A young guy spins in mid-dance and bounces off me so hard it nearly knocks him off his feet. The kid turns around, sleeves rolled up, looking sore and ready to sock whoever ruined his good time. He takes one look at me-big, scratched up, the vein in my forehead probably bulging-and he scurries off.
Deeper in the club, I find a lighted corridor and follow it to a side room where things are more my speed. There's a roulette wheel near the entrance and table games set up across the room. The guests in here are better-dressed and grimmer-looking than the dancers out there with the band. They gamble and sip drinks delivered to them on platters.