It was almost his time. 2 a.m., the peak slot. He waited patiently for the guy up front to finish his set. Charlie knew him vaguely, Mark Wheeler. He was little more than a warm-up really. Mark turned and gestured to Charlie that his final record had started. He now had about three minutes to get in position and cue up his first track. Charlie took his first proper look at the dance floor. It was jumping. The warehouse-like room was dark, smoky, and the music deafening, but he instinctively knew how spangled the clubbers were, what stage they’d reached as the little white pills took their intensely magical effect on their collective brains. Charlie didn’t like big entrances. He was too cool for that. He was past it. He was pleased that this was one of the venues where they didn’t stop the music to introduce the DJ. A name like his needed no introduction. Word would soon get round who was on the decks and he would change style anyway.
