Indicated by the marquis sticking off of the dise of the singe story building, illuminated by hanging lights that glowed brightly in the rain sat that Cafe Americaine. The place was small, but not tiny. The walls in the front room were lined with records, the source of the ambient music. The shelves, separated by portraits of California jazz icons, were old but lovingly maintained. Beyond this room very narrow space consisting of a bar and a stairwell going down to the theater.
Rows of bistro tables covered in varying colors of cloth formed arcs expanding from the stage, and another much larger bar lined the back of the room. It had antique mixers and beakers interspersed with the very modern, two well dressed women and one man tending. Graham was sitting at the end of a salon styled couch among the records with a snifter of brandy in one hand, a book in the other. His countenance far more posh than the clothes he was wearing - a black v neck, black jeans, and scuffed white dress shoes.
He made sire to sit in the light so that Jack would have no trouble finding him.
Killian