The Killing Fields of New Year’s Eve
The music was hot, the drinks were cold, and the people were friendly and full of life. Harry Adams headed for the bar in the corner or the room. “Gimme another whiskey and soda,” he said, leaning against the wood-paneled counter. “Man, this is the best New Year’s Eve party I’;ve been to all year.” He grinned as he raised the glass to his mouth. Three large gulps of the amber liquid and the ice was resting against his lips.
“Play it again, Sam,” he chuckled to the female bartender, who eyed him curiously as he pushed the glass toward her. The woman placed the drink in front of him and forced a smile.
