Below, on the dance floor, heads were bobbing in the smoke and the strobes, the heavy bass tones from the half-million-dollar sound system vibrating through the concrete. Fifty feet away, on his left, the mezzanine bar was doing big business, stacked three-deep with customers. He saw Del, the mezz security man, hurrying toward him. "Bobby! This is outta control! Have you seen this?" Bobby looked around, saw, as his eyes adjusted to the light, what was happening. They were kids. The whole fucking crowd. Not one of the customers clamoring for drinks over the upstairs bar looked to be over seventeen. They were everywhere: chunky girls with teased hair wearing camisoles, skinny boys with baggy jeans and sneakers that glowed in the dark — teenagers, shirtless, dressed up, dressed down, in makeup, wearing wigs, sunglasses, drag, full nightclub battledress — and they were running wild. In pairs, in packs, eyes lit with X, with booze, with animal tranquilizers, ketamine, Mom's pilfered Valiums, ephedrine, mushrooms and God knows what else.
