Stumbling into darkness, moving across an uneven floor that I thought was frozen mud but turned out to be concrete, I first noticed the sound of dogs barking. The club stank of stale beer. Men were packed close, posed like muscled dolls in leather, vinyl, rubber, and neoprene. It was a dank, crumbling cellar, yet lively with voices shouting, hard-beat techno music and in the distance, that low, sporadic yapping. Tad told me to wait and I stood near a shirtless blond boy while he went to get us each a beer.
“You can’t smoke,” the blond said loudly. “Never. I f*****g hate that. f*****g clean air Nazis!”
I avoided the boy’s gaze, trying to make sense of the last few hours.
Tad had become increasingly agitated during the second half of Wolfe’s party. Everyone had retired to an upper deck pa
