The city had a vibrant nightlife, with plenty of clubs, bars, and brothels. Unfortunately, this attracted organized crime, and most of the establishments were under the protection of one mob boss or another. They kept to themselves-there were clearly established conventions and rules, and everyone stuck to them. Parinan gangs were known as some of the politest in the world, and even predominantly immigrant gangs abided by the rules, otherwise the City Guards started cracking heads.
The city was divided into a few sections-the docks, the immigrant quarter, the “red zone” where most of the brothels and bars were located, the residential sector, and the merchant quarter. There was some heavy industry nearby, not more than an hour’s drive at the most, but it was far enough away anybody who didn’t work there or go looking didn’t even see it.
It was getting to be the late afternoon, around 5:30 PM, and the streets were packed with workers returning to their homes. The industrial workers, easy to pick out in their smudged overalls and jeans, were arriving back from the plants on the company trucks, which stopped in the city square and disgorged their human cargo before returning to the plants. They mingled with the dockworkers, dressed similarly but cleaner, and the workmen, who worked the scaffolds of the city doing building work, renovations and public works for bread and a bit of pay. The workmen were a bit younger, mostly single men who had yet to marry. Merchants and their hordes of accountants and secretaries, dressed in finer clothes, kept to themselves, avoiding the dirtier and lower class working men. Some women who worked, in salons or as secretaries or something similar, were in the mix, looking a bit timid and scared among the mass of men. Some of these women would meet their husbands in the square, and the pair, holding hands so as not to get separated, would walk back to their apartment.
One industrial worker named Julian Travers, hopped off his truck, said goodbye to his fellows, and headed straight for the red zone. His overalls were smudged, as was his face, and his shirt had changed from white to grey with dust. He had a bit of stubble and a small mustache, and his dark green eyes darted around, alert for pickpockets. He joined a group of workers, from the docks and plants, headed in the same direction. Some peeled off at certain bars or brothels, but Julian walked on his favorite bar, La Casa Roja (the Red House). The bar doubled as a strip club, and Julian was a personal friend of the bartender.
Walking through the front door with a few other workers, Julian gave the place a look. The muffled sound of music could be heard through the thick curtain which served as the door to the strip club. Julian quickly picked out a spot at the bar and ordered a drink from the shapely barmaid. She returned with a tall glass of scotch, the favorite drink of most Anglicians. The girl’s skin was a medium shade of brown and her dark hair and excellent figure marked her as a Cyprian, a woman from the other side of Parina. All the best ones come from Cypria, Julian thought as he knocked back the scotch. Lucky bastards.
The bar was picking up more customers as more workers returned from their jobs and some foreigners came to sample the nightlife. A new song started playing in the club, and Julian scanned the new crowd, looking for a familiar face.
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