Customs: Instant Fad

A two-toned Cadillac purred to a stop on a sleazy block of Manhattan's West 45th Street. Out climbed a distinguished-looking, grey-haired man. He negotiated the litter-strewn sidewalk, threaded his way through a scattering of post-teen wenches in black leather jackets and boys with duck-tailed haircuts. For a moment, he stared dubiously at a hole-in-the-wall honky-tonk called the Peppermint Lounge, then rushed back to the waiting limousine burbling, "This is the place!" Quickly, two men and three women got out and gingerly followed their scout past the long, noisy bar into the back...

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