Why had he pulled me aside and what was he trying to tell me? “What you suspected? What the hell does that mean, bro?” “Mike,” he said in a deep French accent. “My name is Danton.” “Danton, eh? That would be a sweet stage name. You in a band?” Although my radar was up, I tried to keep the tone light, focused on music. “No.” He didn’t use my stage name, which is how I was known in this club. “How do you know my name?” “I’ve been in this club for many years, watching what goes on night after night.” “So what does that mean? You overheard someone saying my name?” “Perhaps.” A slight smile emerged. “My sense of hearing is quite acute.” What was so funny about that? This guy was some sort of strange egg. I narrowed my eyes. “You’re a bouncer, right?” “You might say that.” “I might say that,” I repeated, growing frustrated with this circular conversation. “What’s up with the cryptic talk? You are or you’re not.” “What I have to tell you is—”
