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and tear from the crystal meth. His cheeks were almost imperceptibly sunken, the face a tiny bit shriveled, and he had a jumpiness that showed up in tapping fingers, restless feet, and gazing around nonstop. He couldn’t stop fidgeting in his chair, and his hands were fluttering like a pair of Monarch butterflies on their way back from Mexico for the winter.
    Gilles was about to lob out another verbal cluster bomb when Keith raised his hand to silence him—again, without looking up from his over-texted BlackBerry. Oddly enough, when I thought even a volcanic eruption couldn’t stop Gilles from talking, Keith’s hand had calmed the waters temporarily.
    Jeremy motioned for Keith to talk next.
    â€œI’m Keith MacGregor. I’m an event planner, nightclub promoter, and bulk texting expert in Los Angeles.”
    This pronouncement was met with blank stares all around the table.
    â€œI help build, design, and promote cutting-edge nightclubs in Los Angeles. Like Area, the Skybar, Element.”
    â€œYou had nothing to do with any of soze clubs,” Gilles chimed in again, giving the shit pot another good stir.
    â€œI said I build and design nightclubs like them. I didn’t say those clubs exactly. I am very much involved in the design of Water, Tube, and Sonic,” Keith replied with a bit of cocky bravura.
    â€œI figure as much,” Gilles added. “No wonder nobody goes to soze clubs.”
    Keith looked up at Gilles like a dog about to attack. Head lowered, eyes glowing like red coals looking up at you from beneath hostile brows. Then he smiled, poured himself some more cranberry juice, took a long drink, and was quiet. Keith’s appearance? Not like the rest. Instead of the polished, sleek look of most of the others, Keith looked, well, disheveled. Between the wild, longish hair, the beard stubble, and the dark circles around the eyes, he looked like a vampire who partied way too much. Jeremy was right—Keith looked like personal hygiene and grooming took a back seat to everything else in his life.
    Aleksei reached for his wineglass again, which I noticed had been magically refilled. His grasp slipped and the glass tipped over on the table, spilling the contents.
    Ian broke in, “Drake, would you be a dear and mop up Aleksei’s spill?”
    Drake got up with just a hint of frustration on his face, picked up the glass, mopped up the spill, and headed for the kitchen.
    â€œDrake, where are you going, boy?” Ian sneered with a barrelful of attitude.
    â€œWhat? The glass is chipped. I’m throwing it away, Ian!”
    â€œLet me see that glass,” Ian demanded.
    He studied the glass, turning it this way and that. He then put on his reading glasses that hung on a jeweled chain around his neck.
    â€œI don’t see anything, Drake.”
    Drake let out a sigh that could’ve woken the dead.
    â€œRight there, Ian!” he said, pointing to an area on the rim.
    â€œMy God, Drake! You’d have to have the Hubble telescope to see that chip. Okay, throw it away, Drake. You win!”
    Drake left the room and went into the kitchen, where we were treated to the sound of the glass being thrown at great velocity against a wall, shattering into a million pieces. This followed by what sounded like someone kicking in the side of an aluminum pizza pan.
    â€œThe way that man spends my money!” Ian complained.
    â€œDavid,” Jeremy said, moving things along, “would you like to introduce yourself? Tell us a little about you.”
    Gilles was about to let loose another volley when Aleksei clapped a hand over Gilles’s mouth. It worked!
    â€œI’m David Laurant.” Like the others, he was abnormally handsome in a young, waif kind of way. But David had a different kind of look. His hair was dyed a bright white and was spiked up, and between the hair and the oversized Tom Ford tortoiseshell horn-rim glasses that made up most of his face,