Flaming Messiah
(page 1)
We'd just moved away from here, about 10 minutes or so farther from this spot. The party was in my old neighborhood, Brentwood, so we knew where all the choice parking spaces were. We found one pretty quickly across the street, then locked up the car and flipped up our collars. It was windy and brisk and the buildings above us amplified the wind into chaotic swirls and frigid bursts.
I wasn't familiar with this particular restaurant. I'd never heard of it even though I'd lived only a few minutes walking distance from it. The address said it should be right across the street and over a bit from the intersection, tucked away between some more familiar landmarks.
From a distance, we could see the number on the door as we walked and could see a little detail through the windows. It didn't look like a setting for a big bash.
The interior was bathed in a dim light that had a comfy, warm mini halogen light glow. There was supposed to be a party, but from the looks of things either we were completely in the wrong place or the party simply hadn't started yet. The worst case would have been that we were there on the wrong night, and at the wrong place, but it was doubtful.
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