The bar is hopping when we get there, a switch from the earlier, half-lit, lazy atmosphere of the early crowd. These are the late night regulars, not yet finished with their first drink of the three drink minimum. They stare at Amy as she enters, eyes running up her thighs and hips and breasts like a thousand roving hands. She blossoms in the attention, brightening, walking straighter. Her light casts Damien and I further into shadow.

She shoos us off at the entrance to the dressing room, half hiding behind the separating curtain. "No offence, but I need to get psyched, and you two aren't the best material for that, you know?" She winks, and Damien motions for me to follow him to her usual table.

"Don't mind her… She's been doing that for as long as I've been coming to her shows." He sits, orders a gin and tonic, and sits back. He doesn't look at the other women, but instead, toys with the pile of napkins set in front of us, twisting them and binding them together in some mockery of origami.

"Where'd she come from?" I ask, getting a spritzer for myself. I don't know why I bother… All the drinks taste pretty much the same. I could break them down into four categories: turpentine, sweet turpentine, hard turpentine, and turpentine with bubbles. But keeping the names is one of the ways I think we try to cling to the old ways.

"She's from up higher in the city, I know that, a lot higher. She doesn't talk about it much, though. I know the name she's given me's a fake." He blushes at my quirked eyebrow. "I, um, traced it… It just seemed sensible to do."

"You mush have some great EP friends, if you've got pull enough to get a trace done," I say casually, studying my nails.

"No, not really… Just the right ones in low places… Anyway, Amy. She's from high up, but that I can tell by her tastes."

"Picky?"

"Not at all… When I brought her to my pad the first time, she was fascinated by it. She loves the seediness and dirt and all the nasty things of this part of the city. It's a novelty for her…"

He trails off as she enters, in an outfit made of something purple and shimmering… It wraps about her like an afterthought, a formality. Her chest is bare this time. Damien swallows, then looks at me, sad smirk on his face. "Must be a lean month if she's breaking that one out," he whispers as she struts down the platform and lands at our little stake in the mecca of smoke and sex and credits. She gives us a quick smile, but is on to those with more swipes to spare, tossing her hair and moving her body to the rhythms of a song I almost remember, but know that from now on, I will always associate it with her.

There's a group in the corner I don't like the looks of, and my stomach begins to ice over with fear. They're dark… not in skin or eye or hair, but rather, they sit in shadow, looking inward at their small group, eyes only roaming out occasionally, like the beams of light houses or search helicopters. More like the latter, really, because I get the sense they're looking for someone.

This part of the sector didn't used to have types like these. They're petty thugs, probably wrapped up with some big time fat cat in the lower sectors, and now, married to alleyways and switchblades, they look for a way to please the big guy. They don't even watch the dancer in front of them.

I glance over at Charlie. He sees them too, and watches them with a wary, jaundiced eye while cleaning out a martini glass. Back in the days of the old pub, he would have screamed at them, kicking them out before they had a chance to warm one of his chairs with their filthy rear ends. Then again, back then, why would some petty thug have wanted to come into a place like Roddy's? It was fairly clean, very bright, full of bustling bodies and distracting music, bouncing back and forth from the swirling dance tunes of yore to more recent melancholy hits. It just wasn't the atmosphere for their kind. Carnal Capers is much more their tune.

Charlie doesn't move to kick them out, or even make their little group uncomfortable. One of the guys stands and meanders over to the bar, placing their order with a sneer. Charlie obliges with lowered eyes, his hands moving mechanically through the makings of three martinis, one Manhattan, and a jack and coke. Turpentine, turpentine, turpentine with bubbles.

I nudge Damien with my elbow, and he pulls his eyes up from something he had been toying with… A napkin, etched with doodles and diagrams, with smatterings of text. 'Eloise Alcott – Job Dunkier -> Alma Mae, Jody, De—' That was where I had stopped him. He grabs up the napkin and stuffs it in his pocket, looking annoyed. "What?"

I nod to the dark corner men, nursing their drinks and still searching the room, looking for someone, something, and not yet finding it. He sighs. "Black Hands," he says, looking back down. "They started stopping in a few weeks ago… They're minions, I think, or at least, they seem too stupid to be anything else." He pats my sleeve. "Don't worry. They've never caused any trouble before. They know better."

"Black Hands… That's a new one on me. How long have they been knocking around?" He gives me a queer look, and I shrug. "I brought new depth to the term 'hermit,' okay? When you don't think you're going to be seeing tomorrow, you don't really care about reading what's going on today." He nods, though I can tell by the doubt in his eyes, he hadn't degraded to the level I had been in when I was saved.

"The Black Hand started making noise about a year ago, but I think they've been around longer than that, just underground. No one sends reporters to the bottom levels, you know?" I nod. "They do a little trafficking, a little controlled violence, but most of it seems to be gang related. As gangs go, there's more that are far, far worse."

Another man enters, thick around the middle with narrow, darting eyes, and a face that's badly in need of a shave. He brushes by us and joins the skinny, nervous lads at the dark table.

Amy watches him go by, and I see a flicker of fear in her eyes, and, strangely enough, elation. Damien sees it as well, and begins to shift in his seat.

"How long until her set is over?" I say under my breath.

"Another five minutes, then she goes into the back for a while. Think this would be a good night for her to take off?"

"Yeah, she looks like she's getting a cramp up there."

We dance anxiously in our seats as the music whips itself up to a frenetic crescendo, and Amy complies, spinning and twirling, smiling and shining, like a twister running through a Christmas light factory. Her eyes never quite leave the dark table, though, and when her set ends, she prances to the back, even giving the unsmiling men a tiny, mocking wave.

Damien and I can't get back there fast enough, pushing aside the bulk of a bouncer as if he was a chubby and petulant child. Amy is at the sink, touching up her make-up, and Damien is the one who gets the honor of grabbing her arm and spinning her to face him.

"Amy, we're getting out of here, now."

She gives a small, pouting frown, but as she looks up from her simper, her eyes are ice. "I have two more sets, Dee, you know that, and we don't have an extra tonight—"

He huffs. "Amy, did you see those guys? Look, I know you like Charlie, but I think it's time to move on… You can find better places, really! You're good enough."

"I don't want better places, Dee. I've been to them, remember? I don't like them. I can't dance in places like that." She places one hand on her hip, and he retorts with something else, paired with an exasperated swipe of his hand… I don't hear what he says, though, as I feel the back of my neck go cold, like some one pouting ice in my spinal cord. I think about the bouncer behind me, facing me, facing my back, watching the argument, face annoyed and drained of any other expression. I feel my mind detach from my body, pulling back, and out, looking beyond the bouncer, looking at the skinny, young fellow rising up, strutting nervously towards the bar, but veering off at the last moment. I see Charlie, behind his counter, eyes going from wary, to worried, to panicked, and I hear, in the body I only sense peripherally, the bodyguard behind me grunt as something is shoved into his side…

And the world goes black to the lullaby of dancers screaming.