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velvet rope, something, but as they approached the Seventeenth Street address, there was no sign of any nightclub. Finally he realized that the “Three” stood for the third floor and that “Downing” was the name of the quasi-high-rise in front of him. Someone went to the MB Reps School of Literal Business Naming.
    The elevator arrived on the third floor. As soon as the doors slid open, Myron could feel the music’s deep bass in his chest. The long queue of desperate wanna-enters started immediately. Purportedly, people went to clubs like this to have a good time, but the truth was, most stood on a line and ended up with a sharp reminder that they still weren’t cool enough to sit at the popular kids’ lunch table. VIPs walked right past them with nary a glance and somehow that made them want to go in more. There was a velvet rope, of course, signaling their lower status, and it was guarded by three steroid-stuffed bouncers with shaved heads and practiced scowls.
    Myron approached with his best Win-like swagger. “Hey, fellas.”
    The bouncers ignored him. The biggest of the three wore a black suit with no shirt. None. Suit jacket, no shirt. His chest was nicely waxed, displaying impressive metrosexual cleavage. He was currently dealing with a group of four maybe-twenty-one-year-old girls. They all wore ridiculously high heels—heels were definitely in this year—so that they teetered more than strutted. Their dresses were skimpy enough for a citation, but really, that was nothing new.
    The bouncer was examining them cattle-call style. The girls posed and smiled. Myron half expected them to open their mouths so he could examine their teeth.
    “You three are okay,” Cleavage told them. “But your friend here is too chunky.”
    The chunky girl, who was maybe a size eight, started to cry. Her three waiflike friends gathered in a circle and debated if they should go in without her. The chunky girl ran off in sobs. The friends shrugged and entered. The three bouncers smirked.
    Myron said, “Classy.”
    The smirks turned his way. Cleavage met Myron’s eyes, offering up a challenge. Myron met his gaze and did not look away. Cleavage looked Myron up and down and clearly found him wanting.
    “Nice outfit,” Cleavage said. “You on your way to fight a parking ticket in traffic court?”
    His two compadres, both sporting tourniquet-tight Ed Hardy T-shirts, liked that one.
    “Right,” Myron said, pointing at the cleavage. “I should have left my shirt at home.”
    The bouncer on Cleavage’s left made a surprised O with his mouth.
    Cleavage stuck out his thumb, umpire-style. “End of the line, pal. Or better yet, just head out.”
    “I’m here to see Lex Ryder.”
    “Who says he’s here?”
    “I say.”
    “And you are?”
    “Myron Bolitar.”
    Silence. One of them blinked. Myron almost shouted, “Ta-da,” but refrained.
    “I’m his agent.”
    “Your name isn’t on the list,” Cleavage said.
    “And we don’t know who you are,” Surprised O added.
    “So”—the third bouncer waved with five beefy fingers—“buh-bye.”
    “Irony,” Myron said.
    “What?”
    “Don’t you guys see the irony?” Myron asked. “You are gatekeepers at a place you yourselves would never be allowed in—and yet, rather than seeing that and thus adding a human touch, you act like even bigger overcompensating ass-clowns.”
    More blinking. Then all three stepped toward him, a giant wall of pecs. Myron felt his blood thrum. His fingers tightened into fists. He relaxed them, kept his breathing even. They moved closer. Myron did not step back. Cleavage, the leader, leaned toward him.
    “You better go now, bub.”
    “Why? Am I too chunky? By the way, seriously, do these jeans make my ass look big? You can tell me.”
    The long line of wanna-enters quieted at the sight of this challenge. The bouncers glanced at one another. Myron scolded himself. Talk about counterproductive. He had come here to fetch Lex, not get into it