By midnight the place was buzzing. The second band of the night was The Gomer Pylons. Dressed in olive drab military fatigues with bright orange road construction cones strapped onto their heads, they played punk and country covers, bouncing on stage while an angry Godzilla silently destroyed 1958 Tokyo on the screen behind them. The dance floor seethed with motion that appeared in stop frames from the overhead strobe lights. I could see the door from my seat at the back bar. The doorman was still letting people in at 12:30.

I had given Martin directions to the Necropolis and told him to be there early because of the increasing crowds; told him to mention my name and to tip the man at the door. I told him to look for a six foot tall, twenty-one-year-old, white man with blue eyes, short blond straight hair wearing a black shirt. Looking around now, there were three dozen of us matching the description. Martin had started to describe himself over the pay phone, but I told him I would know who he was; I would, and he wasn't there.

Henry came back with another beer in hand just as the Pylons finished their first set. "Here you go," he said, placing the glass on a fresh napkin. "Hey, check out the mark." He pointed over my shoulder into the crowd to a middle-aged, balding man in a camel hair sport coat and cream colored khakis. He was apologizing as he made his way through the crowd.

"Oh," I chuckled, "he's with me."

"Yeah right," said Henry, turning away.

I walked straight up to Martin.

"Evan?" he asked gasping, a dazed look on his face.

"Yes Martin, you're late." I led him to the back bar.

"I know, I had trouble at the door."

I looked him up and down, from his balding head to his penny loafers. "I can't imagine why."

"This place is different all right, just like you said. Pretty cool. Why did you have me meet you here?" he said, looking around.

"Because if you were a cop, a wire would be useless in a place like this," I shouted as I reached inside his sport coat to run my hand over the sweater vest feeling for a recording device. "Right?" He squirmed at my touch.

He regained his composure and ran a comforting hand over his lapels as I took my seat again. "Is this an old movie theater?" he asked.

"Yes. How did you hear about me again?" I took a long draw off my beer.

"Preston. He said you could help me."

I nodded.

"Can you, help me?" he asked, raising his eyebrows in an attempt to solicit a response.

“Yes, I can. Did you bring the money?"