The Sure Thing [antikvár]

CHAPTER ONEFor Matt Taylor, Monday night in a Los Angeles hotel was like this.A knockout Oriental hooker came into the lobby bar but passed him up to go talk to some bald guy sitting at a table in the corner; five minutes later, they left together and Matt hoped they both had AIDS.The bartender brought him a Chivas Regal on the rocks, put a paper umbrella in the damned drink, and said it was his own personal statement in the never-ending expansion of the art of mixology.A strolling accordionist came into the bar, stood right behind Matt's stool, and played "Lady of Spain" all the way to its dismal conclusion.Then a movie actor came in, a fat man with a shaved-bald head, parked himself on the stool next to Matt's, got the house telephone and started bellowing at people in a loud attempt to prove how important he was. Matt wanted to ask him if he was so important, how was it that he was reduced to doing guest spots on "Circus of the Stars."But instead, Matt just moved away to a seat at the far end of the bar, picked up the copy of the Los Angeles Times that someone had left there and began to leaf through the pages.7