CONNOR DISAPPEARED; we circled the bar and the dance floor. No trace. A sudden movement behind a pillar on the other side of the bar, Connor had walked up to one of the young shipmates, they looked like undercover DEA agents. He exchanged a few words with them, and soon after turned around and disappeared into the men's bathroom where apparently goods were discussed. Cian lost it, his rage was visible, he couldn't believe the reckless behavior of Connor and the amount of disrespect he showed us. Connor could not resist his coke-habit, it ruled him, and his life and he had put us in harm's way. The group circled closer. I grabbed my Prada purse, jumped on the dance-floor, nodded to the bartender to hit me up with another round, while I swayed to the rhythm of "Murder She Wrote" by Chaka Demus & Pliers. The crowd danced, while the Palm trees swayed and the BBQ by the oceanside dock was grilling up Jerk Chicken, I sipped my drink and followed the crowd when they lowered themselves to the dance-floor. The undercover DEA agents circled the dance floor, they were good looking guys in Bermuda Khaki shorts and T-shirts.
