Aidan San Francisco — 1981 D. J.

From his booth inside the club, Aidan sees her spinning on the dance floor, a fallen star, deadly as a tiny arsenic seed inside a perfect apple.

Aidan thinks of announcing another D.J. contest. Then he notices Neil Jones, leaning on the bar, nursing his scotch. Neil must have done fine last time; there have been no complaints.

“Neil Jones,” Aidan whispers into the mic, “you are tonight’s D. J. ...”

Neil comes to the door. Aidan wordlessly hands him the playlist. Frankie sees Aidan leave the booth and move to the dance floor. He has seen him leave before. He knows he should protest. He knows he should order Aidan back into the booth. After all, he is paying him. Yet he does not.