Flashes of multicoloured lights punctuated the black/white strobe lights, breaking staccato, epileptic movements with explosions of rainbow flow. The bass detonated rhythmically in the chests of the club goers. The air was wet with the sweat of a thousand dancers.
Plan B.
At the edge or the dance floor, huddled over a table, stood Sam, Eddie and Allan. Not their regular choice, but not so rare that a visit would seem out of the ordinary.
They laughed, nodded and winked. And drank for free.
Perks of the Crime Lord status.
Sam started planning jobs in places like this, and kept up the habit. It made sure people knew his face, and it was impossible to bug. Plan B more than any other because of the security on the door. Body scanners that primarily searched for recording implants as well as all possible transmitters. On the off chance they didn’t discover any they blocked 90% of all known transmission frequencies, only keeping open spime channels.
They liked to keep their DJ sets exclusive, and judging by the names they were attracting, and the size of their weekly takings, the audience agreed.
Sam passed through the door without a hitch. Which meant one of three things:
The scanner wasn’t on.
He was just being waved through because of who he was. Or…
His visitor was lying about the surveillance.
But he couldn’t be sure which one was true. Yet.
Sam looked at his two mates. They had all grown up together, gone to clubs that ached to be like this trying to get laid. He’d nickel and dimed in toilets, with those two has his heavies. All the way up, he had made sure no one had touched them – not because he was tougher than the others. He was smarter. Saw trouble coming and sent them away.
“Only one can ride the elevator.”
Allan nudged him and either mouthed “Wanna go to the loo?” or “Whotsits with a choo.”
Sam eventually settled on “What’s up with you” and shook his head in reply.
He glanced at the clock behind the bar. Almost time to go.
He slipped his spime form his pocket and pressed some keys, while leaning over to Eddie and telling him to get the last round in.
He put the spime, face down, on the table and waited for his drink to arrive.
***
As drinks are wont to do – ‘one more for the road’ lead to another, and…to another.
And it wasn’t until the traitorous sun crept into the sky that the three pulled themselves from the dive.
The shuffled into the street, thoughts of breakfast bars, coffee and bacon.
Sam patted himself down. “Shit.”
“Sh’up?”
“I left my spime in the club. Can you go grab it for me, Al? I’ll sort out a lift.”
Allan blinked, shook his head. “Shure.” He paused, as if trying to remember what he was just asked to do, swiveled round and stumbled back into the bar.
***
Allan, struggling to sober up, weaved through the crowd working their way out.
“Man, Sam was getting sloppy. All their shit was on his spime. What on earth was he doing leaving it on a bar table?”
He reached the main room and saw one of the waitresses at their table, slipping the spime into the pocket of her apron.
“Yo. I think that’s my man’s.”
She looked up. Her care-gland clearly wasn’t working. “You Allan.”
He was sure that should have been a question, so nodded.
She sucked through her teeth. “Shit. If you and ‘yo man’ are going to buy this place, you better not be fucking with any of us – you hear?”
“Wha-” But she had fished out the spime, given it back, and walked away.
He looked down at the screen.
“Allan. Plan B is go. Make sure everything is prepared. Tell Eddie, but never when I’m in earshot. Now delete this shit and give me my spime back.”
“Plan B?” Something was stirring in the back of Allan’s mind. “Plan…” He went pale, and ran to the toilet.
***
5 minutes later his stomach was empty and sober was crashing down on him.
He tapped Sam’s spime on his shoulder. “Yo. Next time, remember your own damn toys. Oh, and a took a photo of my cock and sent it to your contact list.”
Sam looked up, saw a question forming – “So…” and shook his head, so slightly, but enough to deflect it.
“…Where’s our damn lift, man? You might be the King of Crime, but you are the Loser of Lifts. If I have to walk home. Again. Cos you’re drunk arse can’t get me a car I’m going to have to think about a new job.”
The argument – the one they had been having every night they went out since the days of trying to get laid – played into the distance.
