Toli sat drumming his fingers up the sides of his sweaty glass of water. His eyes scanned the crowd around him, “The detective is waiting, Mr. Delareux,” he was jostled by a passing patron, “And you said you needed to stop by your office.”
“This is my office,” Delareux replied, circling the names of horses in the newspaper. He waved to the bandleader.
The bandleader, Ben Zoodu, was a pale, gaunt man who stood in front of a handful of musicians, shoved into the corner. A violin, a trombone, a tuba, an accordion and a monstrous percussion contraption. He swirled a baton in the air in front of him, lolling his head and eyes back as he swayed in arrhythmic patterns, supporting himself on the back of chair with his free hand. The band seemed oblivious to his gesticulating as they weaved a brisk, atonal swing.