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The wig sat on the beach at Cannes for two years, ingesting only the most expensive designer drugs and periodically flicking on a Toby Hosaka television to study the bloated bodies of dead Africans with a strange and curiously innocent intensity.

The death of a given clan member, even a founding member, usually wouldn't bring the clan, as a business entity, to a crisis point.

Bobby nodded.

"The club was a series of nearly identical rooms in the basement of a semi-residential rack zones for singles and a sprinkling of light industry."

"He became aware of the sound of waves lapping the flanks of the rig."