“Ho,” Johnny says to the Indian. It’s the only Kickapoo he knows. Hello. The Indian ignores him.

Gold Chains says there’s a five-dollar charge to get into the club.

“What do you get for that?” Johnny asks. “A titty show?”

The flashing lights make the gold chain guy’s mustache look like it’s bouncing on his upper lip. “This ain’t that kind of place, if that’s the kind of place you’re looking for,” he says.

“Nah, nah,” Johnny says. “This is the kind of place we want.”

“You sure?”

“There’s chicks in there, right? Music? Beer?”

“You dudes looking to dance?”

“Hell, yeah,” Johnny says. “We’re dancing fools.”

The music punches the Fiends in the chest when they step inside, the bass hitting like a steady jab. Swiveling lights, synched to the beat, disorient them, and the club is as hot and humid as a Florida swamp. They muscle their way through the crowd to the bar, a black schooner parting a churning sea.

Johnny orders for them, three beers. The girl behind the bar frowns at the grubby five he drops as payment. She straightens the bill gingerly, using her long red fingernails, puts it in the till, and walks away.

The Fiends find a wall to lean against. They sip their beers and watch the action on the dance floor. Everyone spins and claps in unison, the men shaking their asses as much as the women.

“I knew a pimp who had a getup like that,” Johnny shouts in Pedro’s ear, pointing at one of the dancing men.

After half an hour, the music and lights have given Bob a headache. He feels like he’s trapped on a carnival ride. He’s about to tell Johnny and Pedro “Let’s get the fuck out of here” when a tall, thin dude surrounded by a black aura enters the club with an unturned chick on his arm. He’s not one of the rovers that dusted Bob 2, but beggars can’t be choosers.

The Fiends duck into the hallway leading to the bathrooms to avoid being spotted. Bob peeks around the corner to watch the rover and the chick dance their way to the bar. He and the others make their move while the guy’s flagging down a bartender, surrounding him. He starts to bitch about being crowded but freezes when he sees it’s rovers.

“What’s your name, brother?” Bob says.

“Darren,” the rover replies. He’s wearing white pants and a lime-green shirt.

“We need to talk to you, Darren.”

The rover looks from Bob to Johnny to Pedro, contemplating running. Bob wraps an arm around him. “Order me a scotch and soda,” Darren tells the girl, a little blonde in a sequined dress that barely covers her ass. “I’ll be right back.”