The Paradise Club

The air was rank inside the doorway of The Paradise Club; thick and stale with the drifting smoke of a hundred cigars. The wispy, spiralling trails drew my attention to the right, to the executive lounge, filled with tailored suits, self-inflated egos, and countless clear packets of snow white powder, swapping secretively between numerous hands like some street-grade magic trick.
I was two steps from the entrance when a mountain of a man appeared from nowhere, blocking my path and most of the light to boot. He stared expectantly at me, waiting on me to produce whatever it was that granted access to the Promised Land beyond.
With nothing to offer I took a final glance at his rigid poker face before turning tail and entering the general area of the club. The smoke and irony dispersed as the air began to, in my eyes at least, finally embody the name of the club; tinged with liquor and laced with perfume.
I walked to the bar, waited my turn, and ordered a brandy, neat.

Was it for show, a shallow attempt at cover? Or would I be back there in two minutes, shaky fingers clutching my empty, demanding a refill...?

I sat down at the nearest table, directly opposite the executive lounge.

And waited...