lub Embrujo—"Warlock" in English—wassituated in the suburbs at the end of the number 27 bus line.Looking more like a fortification than a dance club, it wassurrounded on all sides by high stucco walls into which wereembedded shards of shattered beer bottles—a crude securitysystem preventing anyone from entering illegally without leavingbehind a good portion of flesh.

During the ride, Becker had resolved himself to the fact thathe'd failed. It was time to call Strathmore with the badnews—the search was hopeless. He had done the best he could;now it was time to go home.

But now, gazing out at the mob of patrons pushing their waythrough the club's entrance, Becker was not so sure hisconscience would allow him to give up the search. He was staring atthe biggest crowd of punks he'd ever seen; there werecoiffures of red, white, and blue everywhere.

Becker sighed, weighing his options. He scanned the crowd andshrugged. Where else would she be on a Saturday night?Cursing his good fortune, Becker climbed off the bus.

The access to Club Embrujo was a narrow stone corridor. AsBecker entered he immediately felt himself caught up in the inwardsurge of eager patrons.

"Outta my way, faggot!" A human pincushion pawed pasthim, giving Becker an elbow in the side.

"Nice tie." Someone gave Becker's necktie a hardyank.

"Wanna fuck?" A teenage girl stared up at him lookinglike something out of Dawn of the Dead.

The darkness of the corridor spilled out into a huge cementchamber that wreaked of alcohol and body odor. The scene wassurreal—a deep mountain grotto in which hundreds of bodiesmoved as one. They surged up and down, hands pressed firmly totheir sides, heads bobbing like lifeless bulbs on top of rigidspines. Crazed souls took running dives off a stage and landed on asea of human limbs. Bodies were passed back and forth like humanbeach balls. Overhead, the pulsating strobes gave the whole thingthe look of an old, silent movie.

On the far wall, speakers the size of minivans shook so deeplythat not even the most dedicated dancers could get closer thanthirty feet from the pounding woofers.

Becker plugged his ears and searched the crowd. Everywhere helooked was another red, white, and blue head. The bodies werepacked so closely together that he couldn't see what they werewearing. He saw no hint of a British flag anywhere. It was obvioushe'd never be able to enter the crowd without gettingtrampled. Someone nearby started vomiting.

Lovely. Becker groaned. He moved off down a spray-paintedhallway.

The hall turned into a narrow mirrored tunnel, which opened toan outdoor patio scattered with tables and chairs. The patio wascrowded with punk rockers, but to Becker it was like the gateway toShangri-La—the summer sky opened up above him and the musicfaded away.

Ignoring the curious stares, Becker walked out into the crowd.He loosened his tie and collapsed into a chair at the nearestunoccupied table. It seemed like a lifetime since Strathmore'searly-morning call.

After clearing the empty beer bottles from his table, Beckerlaid his head in his hands. Just for a few minutes, hethought.

Five miles away, the man in wire-rim glasses sat in the back ofa Fiat taxi as it raced headlong down a country road.

"Embrujo," he grunted, reminding the driver of theirdestination.

The driver nodded, eyeing his curious new fare in the rearviewmirror. "Embrujo," he grumbled to himself. "Weirdercrowd every night."