Once they got to the club, Shasta Disaster, a renovated brick bank with
robotic halogen spots that swept the sidewalk out front with a throbbing
penis logomark, she let go of his arm and her body stiffened. She said
something in the doorman's ear, and he let her pass. When Alan tried to
follow her, the bouncer stopped him with a meaty hand on his chest.
"Can I help you sir," he said flatly. He was basically a block of fat
and muscle with a head on top, arms as thick as Alan's thighs barely
contained in a silver button-down short-sleeve shirt that bound at his
armpits.
"Do I pay the cover to you?" Alan asked, reaching for his wallet.
"No, you don't get to pay a cover. You're not coming in."
"But I'm with her," Alan said, gesturing in the direction Mimi had
gone. "I'm Krishna's and her neighbor."
"She didn't mention it," the bouncer said. He was smirking now.
"Look," Alan said. "I haven't been to a club in twenty years. Do you
guys still take bribes?"
The bouncer rolled his eyes. "Some might. I don't. Why don't you head
home, sir."
"That's it, huh?" Alan said. "Nothing I can say or do?"
"Don't be a smart guy," the bouncer said.
"Good night, then," Alan said, and turned on his heel. He walked back up
to Queen Street, which was ablaze with TV lights from the open studio
out front of the CHUM-City building.
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