Here's a short extract just to wet your appetite
Junk had to take the corner chair. Burgess had the best seat but it was his office. When junk returned, he had found Burgess just as he was now. Swiveling in his chair, keeping the whole club under surveillance. Stacked on their shelf at the far end of the room, the six TV sets showed different views of every corner of the Gravity. Burgess turned away from the one he'd been watching - an overhead shot of the main door.
"What do you think he's doing?" Burgess asked.
Junk leant over the TV; the figure just seemed to be scratching himself
Burgess said "He's been scratching himself like that for ten minutes. What do you think is wrong with him ?"
"I don't know. Lice. A rash. How should I know?" Junk didn't even know why he was been asked.
"Well do you think we should tape it, sit him down there, play it back to him and ask him what his problem is?"
"Why"
"He's supposed to be security. If he can't keep his fucking dick clean , what good is he?"
Junk kept quiet. He didn't see the link between strict personal hygiene an working as a bouncer. But then , he'd never thought about it before. If Burgess believed the connection was significant, presumably he had his reasons. Burgess had a head for that stuff and Junk didn't necessarily follow the line of thought. Half the time, he had enough trouble following his own line of thought.
"Would you sack him?" asked Burgess.
"No , I wouldn't sack him" said Junk. "Why are you asking me?"
"It's an aptitude test. I'm seeing whether intense exposure to my management techniques has given you an insight into the clubs and leisure industry."
"It hasn't," said Junk.
He'd known Burgess for nearly twenty years. He had thought, once, that he knew how to run a club. Hire a DJ, put a bouncer on the door, scoop the notes out of the till at three a.m. and pay off everyone who required it. You could walk off with a roll in your pocket, easy, and out into the night. Burgess had told him those days were long gone. Junk reckoned so, too. He was on the pay roll now.
When he picked up his wages, he took out a slip and read that his tax and national insurance contributions had been deducted. It seemed sacrilegious, working nights in a club and paying national insurance like anyone who clocked on and off for a living. Even the DJs were businesslike. They described themselves as freelancers and hired accountants to negotiate their tax schedules.
Junk pulled his satchel around on to his knee. The video cassettes stacked inside were labeled with sticky freezer labels. Junk reached to the bottom of the bag, found the couple of wraps of cocaine he had made up at home and put them on Burgess's desk. Burgess looked over at them. He already had a wad of notes in his hand . Peeling off a few twenties, he handed them over his shoulder. 'Eighty quid, Junk.'
That was right. And another eighty tomorrow when the cocaine was gone and Burgess needed more. Junk took the notes and slipped them into the front of his satchel.
Burgess said, "what else have you got in there?"
Junk picked out one of his videos: "some Manga flicks that a friend brought back from Japan, snatches of a Czech surrealist short I taped off the BBC and a Gerard Damino fest'." Junk was pretty pleased with the tape he'd edited together for tonight.
Almost ten years ago, Burgess had told Junk he was opening a new club and had a great idea. He was going to have a VJ as well as a DJ, playing videos which would be projected on to screens above the dance floor. Burgess had read about VJs working the clubs of New York and Tokyo. At the time, Junk was pirating video porn for spare change. Burgess hired Junk when he heard about the videoing mixing desk that Junk had built in his flat.
Thanks to Burgess, Junk had become almost famous. Music papers came to interview him. TV producers would buy his tapes and even offer him work. They were a little non-plussed when they found out he was blind in one eye as a result of injecting amphetamine sulphate directly into his eyeball. But it made a good story. Junk never did move into TV - what would he be doing anyway, editing together promos for sports programmes, step aerobics from Venice Beach or something ? He was happier in the club, with his own
VJ booth and editing suite.
Burgess had got excited about Junk's work immediately. He had got into the habit of borrowing Junk's latest tapes. Burgess said , "Well I don't watch telly, it's too slow: I need something with a touch more intensity".
Anyone who saw Burgess, they'd think: late-forties, successful. They might even admire his suit. But they would never see his house. It wasn't only that it was so stark, rather than comfortably domestic. It was the TV sets. Burgess really did play Junk's tapes all the time : snatches of skate videos, monster truck marathons, porno movies, kung fu and Chinese ghost films, Russian cartoons - all cut together into a schizophrenic orgy. It was the only thing that Burgess had in common with Junk. That, and not sleeping.