Squeezed between a bicycle store and a shop devoted to computer software, it was close enough to Vanderbilt University to attract a clientele of body-conscious young men and women armed with their parents’ credit cards. Razor had paid for Byron’s membership, supposedly a gift to Byron but more likely a gift to himself. The front door opened into a reception area, where a bored-looking woman in an electric pink leotard sat behind a kidney-shaped pinewood desk. She perched on a high stool chomping on gum, reading an outdated copy of Vogue magazine, and filing a set of Manchurian fingernails. A clipboard with a sign-in sheet lay on the desk, three-quarters filled with signatures. I couldn’t tell if they were behind the times or if the low-tech method was supposed to represent a more human touch. Hell, maybe they just had lousy computer system. I signed Byron’s name to the clipboard, along with the time, and walked into the back as if I belonged there. Nobody seemed to know—or care—otherwise.
