A Familiar Face

“This is the right address,” I confirm.
Past ten o’clock the Boulevard gets crowded. Mithra and I stand in front of a business that could, politely, be called a nightclub. The neon sign above the entrance reads GREAT MEAT, with the first and last two letters coloured pink.
A pretty good marketing scheme for a brothel.
“I know that guy,” Mithra says, staring at a man with his collar turned up and hat pulled low. “He was at the charity event.”
That means he’s rich, in trouble, and here to try and pay out of it.
It’s all coming together.