Blue-and-white cruisers were more numerous than prowling cats when I drove back to Nanaimo’s. By then it was about two AM. Rave noises poured from the club’s windows and from the open patio where I had been sitting earlier. Before getting out of the car, I took my Glock from its clip beneath the MG’s dashboard, and stuffed it into my belt. The bouncer who had patted me down for weapons the first time was still on duty. He recognized me. This time he just waved me straight through. Nanaimo’s alcohol-and-drug-fuelled drama had kicked up a notch. Girls who a year or two earlier had been playing with dolls were washing down ecstasy tablets with kamikaze shots. Stockbrokers, visiting firemen, and lone-wolf sailors blowing their pay while they sought less-than-eternal love were revealed spasmodically beneath the club’s pulsating strobe lights. The waiter who had served me earlier was beside the counter. He said, “You must be a glutton for punishment.”
