One of these places is run by a vicious pimp and blackmailer, his last days.
Last days of a screenwriter.
The two meet and mingle across the terribly tony unctuousness of trattorie and brasseries in the West End and the other.
In the impossibly ridiculous future, mavens control the brain of Daniel Feeld, writer, cryogenically preserved from the neck up over three centuries.
His memories are a subject of scientific interest and a potential source of entertainment, perhaps enlightenment, unto billions, for “zillions”.
A useful science-fiction model (Green’s The Brain That Wouldn’t Die) fills the bill.