The lounge walls suddenly turn blurry. Checking the clock again, when was it that Mr. Daniels said he wanted to meet in the Hôtel de La Poste lobby?
Two tables down four large men are seated who don't even have the manners to fake that they're looking this way.
It's time to leave, but standing up dislodges the iPod, which falls, sweat covered, to the marble floor.
It was that song from last night's underground disco. It was this song.