by J. G. Sandom
“Passport,” he said.
When I handed it to him, he shook his head like I knew that he would. Asshole.
“You are only sixteen. Nein.” He shook his head again, as if to avoid any ambiguity, and handed me back my passport. “This is nightclub. You know? C-L-U-B.”
Like I was deaf.
I pulled out my student press pass, my VIP Speakers’ pass to the Forum, my Hotel Europe platinum card key, and my rabbit, in that order, and he reluctantly let me on through. It’s funny. By then—I remember, it came to me with a jolt, as I pushed through the curtains and the bright flashing lights of the club slapped my face—I’d already forgotten what David Cook was wearing on his feet that night. I know I saw them, his shoes, as he fell. But I couldn’t for the life of me remember what they looked like. And this, like so many other things, was a great disappointment to me.
I’m guilty. I admit it. We all are, one way or another.
This is not a whodunit. If you want one of them, move down the library stack. It’s more a whydunit and why I’m not sorry I did.