James & Co, Seven
Red steam streams out from under the door and you can hear the muffled strains of a jazz quartet if you listen hard enough and happen to be in that particular alley during the more dangerous hours of the morning. Inside they gather. The girls in their garters and the men in their best pressed pinstripe suits, rings shoved deep in their pockets. They’ve doubled up on Old Spice and Bourbon neat. The ice machine is broken, but no one came here to cool off.