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Fortified, I march down the Bar Car's center aisle, the only aisle I'll ever march down with Clement Goodbloode. "Bad girl," Clemmy says, scanning my face. He grabs my bag and paws through it roughly, finds what he's after, stalks off. The waiter arrives with the check. I give it back to him and order more drinks, cognacs this time. No point in sticking applications to spritzers applications now. When Clemmy gets back, his eyes are burning, prompting me to break into a spirited rendition of "Ring of Fire." Clemmy hands me the cocaine to shut me applications up. "You did it all?" I say, examining the bottle Clemmy's forgotten about emptying. I'm not really surprised, though I try to sound that way. Always the good provider, Clemmy gets up to chat with one of our friendly hosts, the one who looks like Rasputin only more well-clipped, one of the guys who are always so glad to see us, and things degenerate predictably from there.
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