We file out of the CCTV room. In the fifteen minutes or so we’ve spent staring at footage of the night Billy died, the club has shed most of its clientele. There are a few hangers-on at the bar and sitting at the high tables near the fireplace, but no one at the large center table. Without the usual throng of customers fronting the counter, the backbar glistens and shines, a beacon in the gloom. Cindy is polishing glasses. Her colleague, Sam, must have gone home already. Guillermo, forced to remain until the last customers have left the club, has put on Tainted Love, as if to send a blunt message to the diehards. I’m guessing he really wants whoever is still out there to leave.
Most of the dancers have left now. Those few remaining stand around and look bored, having no doubt already hust
