Snake Eyes Club, a speakeasy of unspeakable reputation, notorious in its decadence, and Jay Gatsby confidently uttered the password to step inside the lionโs den. The once soldier had the heart of a drifter, settling into New York to find his fortune and going here and there, earnestly throwing himself at whatever bootlegger needed a body. Youthful arrogance and destitute desperation guided his steps these days. The hole in the wall apartment that was his new home, with its thin walls and ravenous rats was a mere stepping stone to Jayโs lofty ambitions.
The youth lit a cigarette to calm his nerves, and perched by the wall, blue eyes sailing over the dense but small crowd of people who congregaded within those walls. The owner was supposedly a man by the name of Oliver Bolton but God only knew what the man looked and there were many men of varying degrees of sobriety in his line of vision in the fanciest suits that could be bought that could be the man. He worked his jaw and drew more from his cigarette before almost gliding to the bar.
It would be foolish for him to not come to a place such as this and not grab a drink of his own and ordered a beer from the bartender, settling upon the upholstered swivel barstool.
