If not for bar stools, you'd have nowhere to sit on a cold night, like all the others, elbows denting the dingy brown beer-slick countertop in your trenchcoat and fedora. Waiting for Canino. Tommy the Snitch said he'd be here tonight, and Tommy never lies ... at least not after you've broken his first four fingers. But without this stool, you'd have to stand there, awkward, holding you double whiskey straight, and be way too easy for that scumbag Canino to spot. And you know how that ends; long fall into a shallow grave, gumshoe.