Chapter 9
Evan Maple sat at the back bar in Tricks, nursing his third Stoli and tonic, staring morosely into the clear potable and melting ice. On the stage before him, a pathetic little waif tried to inject some life into the sparse crowd by thrusting his pelvis Elvis-style at them. The boy, acne scarred and with the kind of muscles that made him a suspect for steroid abuse, seemed far away as he moved his hips, clad only in a thong and a pair of scuffed brown cowboy boots. It was as if the guy were imagining a complete different reality for himself, which he probably was. The bass thump of the music, some house/techno/trance crap that barely qualified as melody, probably made it easy for the dancer to drift away, at least in his head.
Evan wished the music had the same effect on him. M
