Witness to the mob

Up until a few years ago I lived in midtown and from our building's roof garden I often waved to my reflection on the side of the Crystal Palace on Third Avenue. At the time I often wondered where the loud-talking Staten Islanders collapsing under the influence of multiple margaritas at my local Mexican restaurant, Zarela's, got their money. One night I discretely drew the attention of Winston the barman to the act of copulation taking place on a stool in the bar, which was so crowded that