From the few comments Thomas had made, Martia was expecting the Dotted Lion to be the shadiest imaginable dive—a dimly lit, smoke-filled bar with sawdust (and other things) on the floor, and disreputable patrons boozing it up or playing intense pool or poker games that threatened to erupt into violence every few minutes. There should be a thin man in a derby hat sitting at a honky-tonk piano in one corner beating out a catchy but unrecognizable tune that no one listened to. The bar would have a line of surly men standing before it, each looking more a loser than the man next to him. The women would all be w****s who’d never even heard the word architecture, let alone be able to spell it.
Instead, she found herself in a wide, bright room that looked like a slightly outdated Elks’ Club hall
