January nights in Riverside were damn cold.  Frank Wozniak shivered at what would await him when he walked out the door.  He buttoned up his coat, grabbed his bottle of vodka, his pack of cigarettes, and his lighter.  He took one last look around the place – the light green wallpaper that had started peeling a couple years back, the old wooden barstools and tables were near their breaking point, and all the liquor bottles lay in glass shards on the floor.