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The club is hot, stuffy, too dark, the music too loud, and frankly painful to listen to. Eames is nursing his third drink and a headache, ready to just go outside and hail a cab, honestly, except he doesn’t really have enough money left to get back to his flat.Yusuf, of course, has vanished; off selling something to someone. His “compounds” as he calls them, are incredibly popular with the club-going set; by the end of the night he’ll have made off like a bloody bandit. Eames will get a share, of course. Nominally, he’s the muscle, but they never get into much trouble.That being said, he should at least try and find the idiot.Eames is scanning the crowd when someone taps him on the arm, and he turns, expecting to see Yusuf, and instead finding a young, dark-haired thing, in a tight, white T-shirt and studded jeans.“‘Scuse me,” the young man says, in a clean, American accent, shouting a little to be heard over the music. “Are you with the - the uh -” He waves his hand, a little unsteadily, the bushes a bit of over-long hair from his pretty face. His dark eyes have a glassy sheen of inebriation to them.“The chemist?” Eames suggests. Yusuf’s alias is a bit laughable; then again, most people think Eames is an alias anyway; which it isn't. Who in their right mind would choose to name themselves after a chair?“Yeah,” the young man nods, grateful to be relieved of the burden of remembering. “My friend and I were hoping he had some of that stuff he sold us last time. It was great.” He smiles, broad and unabashed, and Eames’ guts do something uncomfortable that he tries to write off as an after-effect of the thundering bass that’s vibrating the club’s floor.