When the music’s playing, clubs have an energy that’s undeniable-the heat of strangers crowding together, the pulsing beat interrupted by the occasional squeal of drunken delight, the sometimes sickening blend of perfume and sweet drinks and hastily wiped up vomit. If you’re not in the mood, it can seem like the ninth pit of Hell, but you still can’t deny the life of it. Walking through this club now was like creeping through a cemetery.

My footsteps and voice didn’t echo through the cavernous emptiness, but were swallowed by top-notch acoustics. Emergency lighting was the only illumination, too dim to even cast shadows. The overamped air-conditioning raised goose bumps on my arms and legs. The smell of cleaning chemicals barely covered the mildew from drinks spilled on the carpeted upper level. The only sound was the slow thump-thump-thump of music in a distant room, thudding like a dying heart.

Bianca was saying something ahead of me.

“Sorry. I missed that.”

“I said crew members don’t officially work in the club, but you could be called on to serve drinks or help behind the bar if we’re short-staffed. Everyone’s expected to do their part. Is that okay with you?”

I could tell by Bianca’s tone-friendly but firm-that this wasn’t open to negotiation.

“Can’t say I’ve ever waited tables, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“Good. Rodriguez is our tech guy and he’ll set you up with an untraceable cell phone. You’re expected to carry it at all times. If Guy wants you here, he wants you here now, whether it’s 2 a.m. or lunchtime.”