"Got to go to the bathroom," he said into Freddy's ear. In leaning over, he contrived to get a look at the reporter's notebook. It was covered in obscene doodles of Mickey Mouse with a huge erection, Minnie dangling from a noose. There wasn't a single word written on it. What little blood was left in Sammy's head drained into his feet, which were leaden and uncoordinated on the long trip to the filthy toilets. He splashed cold water on his face in the sink, and then headed back toward his seat. He never made it. From the top of the stairs leading down to ringside, he saw Freddy quaffing more ale and flirting with the wench. The thunder of horse-hooves and the soundtrack of cinematic music drowned out all sounds, but nothing masked the stink of the manure falling from the horses, half of which were panicking (the other half appeared to be drugged). This was a mistake. He thought Freddy was a gossip reporter who liked juicy stories. Turned out he was also one of those tedious anti-corporate types who would happily hang Sammy out to dry. Time to cut his losses. He turned on his heel and headed for the door. The doorman was having a cigarette with a guy in a sports-coat who was wearing a manager badge on his lapel. "Leaving so soon? The show's only just getting started!" The manager was sweating under his sports-coat. He had a thin mustache and badly died chestnut hair cut like a Lego character's. "Not interested," Sammy said. "All the off-theme stuff distracted me. Nose-rings. Blue hair. Cigarettes." The doorman guiltily flicked his cigarette into the parking lot. Sammy felt a little better. "I'm sorry to hear that, sir," the manager said. He was prematurely grey under the dye-job, for he couldn't have been more than thirty-five. Thirty-five years old and working a dead-end job like this -- Sammy was thirty-five. This is where he might end up if his screw-ups came back to haunt him. "Would you like a comment-card?" "No," Sammy said. "Any outfit that can't figure out clean toilets and decent theming on its own can't benefit from my advice." The doorman flushed and looked away, but the manager's smile stayed fixed and calm. Maybe he was drugged, like the horses. It bothered Sammy. "Christ, how long until this place gets turned into a roller-derby again?" "Would you like a refund, sir?" the manager asked. He looked out at the parking lot. Sammy followed his gaze, looking above the cars, and realized, suddenly, that he was standing in a cool tropical evening. The sky had gone the color of a ripe plum, with proud palms silhouetted against it. The wind made them sway. A few clouds scudded across the moon's luminous face, and the smell of citrus and the hum of insects and the calls of night birds were vivid on the evening air.