He had added tinted glasses and a fedora covering his shaved head to his

appearance, keeping in mind that somewhere a bench warrant had been issued for

his arrest and cops here could very well know what he looked like. He was also

growing a goatee.

 

Into the mic he said, “Rogers, checking in.” There was a squawk and then a voice

came back to him. “Copy that, Paul. Loud and clear. Have a good shift.” He

settled his back against the brick wall next to the entrance door. In front of

the door were two metal stands with a red velvet rope strung between them, like

at a theater.

 

It was thirty minutes until opening, but there was already a line of people down

the street and around the corner. They were mostly young, many clearly military

with their shaved heads and toned physiques. The ladies were dressed to impress;

the men looked ready to drink and score with the aforementioned ladies.

 

Rogers looked down at his phone where the VIP list was up on the screen. Ten

names. Bigwigs in some way, he supposed. At least locally.

 

He studied the people in line. Most of them were on their phones, tapping keys

and, he supposed, communicating with someone.

 

Some were taking pictures of themselves. He had heard about Facebook and that

Twitter thing, although he had no idea what the purpose for either was. He had

seen a young waitress inside posting something on her Facebook account. To