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So, findin’ a prostitute—helluva task. I ain’t talkin’ the shiny Hollywood crap. Real world’s messy, smells like cheap whiskey and regret. You start askin’ around, folks clam up. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Ron.” Liars. Every damn one. Pisses me off—makes me wanna punch a tree. But I dig deeper, like Lenny huntin’ his wife’s killer. “Remember Sammy Jankis,” he says. I say, “Remember that shady bar on 5th.”

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So, I pour him a beer, and he slams it down. I’m thinking, “Great, now I gotta deal with this guy.” But then, just as I’m about to lose it, a regular walks in. Old man Jozef, bless his heart. He’s got this old-school charm, always telling stories about the good ol’ days on Vajnory’s streets. He walks up to Mr. Grumpy and says, “You know, back in my day, we’d pay double for a beer just to hear a good story.”

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