A matching pair of blondes in micro-minis and stiletto heels stood sentinel at the Metro’s entrance. They cast an appraising eye over my navy-blue Hugo Boss suit, concluded that I was pathologically unhip but otherwise both harmless and solvent, and raised the red rope. Doof, doof, doof, came the beat from the interior. Wang, wang, wang.

Twenty-five years earlier, I’d sat in the Metro and watched Gregory Peck and David Niven destroy the guns of Navarone. There was still plenty of smoke and noise and flashing light, but no sign of David Niven. Not his scene at all.

The seats had been ripped out, replaced by a dance floor. The movie screen was now a wall of video monitors, an animated matrix of MTV images, winking and blinking. DJs in white overalls tended a console of turntables, the bridge of the Starship Enterprise, warp-factor nine imminent. A central bar dispensed back-lit liquors and bottles of Mexican beer with wedges of lime shoved in their necks. Beams of coloured light zapped from gimballed prisms set in huge robotic arms that swung out above the dance floor, flexing and pumping to the relentless beat. Doof, doof, doof.

It was still early, not quite eleven, and the place was only half-full. Hardly a thousand people were milling about, crowding the bars or bopping on the dance floor. There were so many blond tips that I wondered if they were spiking the drinks with peroxide. I shed my tie, left my jacket at the coat-check counter, rolled my sleeves to the forearm and elbowed my way to the booze. The happy-hour special was bourbon. To my surprise, it wasn’t watered.

Glass in hand, I surveyed the dancers. Criss-crossed by searchlights and enveloped in clouds of artificial fog, they moved with jerky, pixilated movements to a persistent, allencompassing, unvarying bass thump. Doof, doof, doof.

A suspended gangway led to the balcony where I’d once sat between my parents and watched The Parent Trap. It was now a lounge, booth seats with waitress service and a view of the video wall. There was no sign of Hayley Mills. Instead, clusters of frighteningly glamorous women sat around elaborate cocktails, checking the prospects. Even if I’d had the courage to approach one of them, I couldn’t imagine bellowing pick-up lines over the top of Tina Turner. If the music got any louder, I’d start bleeding from the ears.

What I had in mind was a statuesque redhead with a come-hither look, the ability to read lips and a lapel badge that said ‘Take Me, Murray, I’m Yours’. It looked like she hadn’t arrived yet.

Some sort of VIP area occupied the topmost level, admission by membership key-tag only. Doubtless this was where the real fun was being had, the stuff involving rolled-up hundred dollar bills and celebrity cleavage. Techno-beat clanging in my cranium, I retreated to a glassed-in area with a bar along one wall and a half-dozen pool tables covered in blue baize. It was less crowded and marginally quieter.

I took a stool at the bar, ordered another Wild Turkey and pondered my instructions from Agnelli. Any attempt to find a proxy challenger to the Hauler incumbents was bound to be noticed, further aggravating existing antagonisms. And if I persuaded some sucker to stick his head in the lion’s mouth and he got hurt, I wouldn’t feel very comfortable, ethics-wise.

In this sort of situation, the best way of handling Agnelli was the go-slow. His attention would soon turn elsewhere. First thing Monday morning, I would begin to drag my feet. Meanwhile, I’d clock off, loosen up and try to make the most of the weekend. The hooch was a good start. A bit of female companionship would be even better.

At the nearest pool table, three guys were putting their moves on a trio of girls. All six were in their mid-twenties, well oiled and kicking on. One of the girls was bent over a cue, poised on the toes of one foot. She was slender, fine-boned and wide-eyed, her dark hair cut short. An Audrey Hepburn lookalike, I decided.

The notion amused me. I began to think of screen equivalents for the other players. Nobody too recent, that was the rule. It had to be someone I might conceivably have seen in this very theatre.

The tallest of the girls had long, straight hair and a wide mouth full of perfectly even teeth. Seen from a distance of several miles by a man with glaucoma, she might have passed for Ali McGraw. The fleshy one with the sultry lips was definitely Maria Schneider. Last Tango in Paris. Butter on that popcorn, please.

The short dark guy was playing to type, doing a Jean-Paul Belmondo. Cigarette at the corner of his mouth, up-fromunder smoulder as he bent over his cue. Maria Schneider was buying it. Give them a couple of hours and they’d be propped on post-coital pillows, swapping subtitles. The tall thin bloke was a limp-limbed Montgomery Clift. He was doing a line for Ali McGraw.

Male number three was a stocky, cocky, corn-fed Steve McQueen. Whenever Audrey Hepburn potted a ball, he grabbed her hand and hoisted it aloft, referee-style. If she bent to take a shot, he draped himself across her, the better to deliver a coaching tip. Any excuse to touch her. She didn’t like it and kept skipping free. Bullitt persisted, convinced of his irresistibility.

The others were too busy pairing off to notice. Lover boy caught me watching and tried to stare me out. I let my eyes drift elsewhere. The last thing I needed was amateur aggravation. One more drink, I decided, then bye-byes for Murray boy.

The crowd was thickening by the minute. I found myself doing the arithmetic. Fifteen hundred people, say. Five bars, all working flat out. Three drinks per person per hour, absolute minimum. Spirits at six bucks a pop, champagne at five a glass, imported beers at top dollar.

For three generations, Whelans had owned and operated licensed premises. Nothing in this league, of course. Country and suburban pubs, no smoke machines or six-foot door-blondes. Fifteen years since my father sold up, retired to Stradbroke Island, the last of the publican line. Hard to guess the margins, joint like this. Any way you figured it, somebody was doing nicely.

Unlike Steve McQueen. The more Audrey eluded him, the more he drank. And the more he drank, the more pissedoff he got. You could read his growing frustration in the curl of his lips and the way he held his bottle by the neck when he drank. His mates were well on the way to scoring. He was starting to look like a loser. What was wrong with this bitch?

An ugly drunk is an arid source of amusement, even if he’s playing pool with a goddess. When he caught me looking again, I held his hostile stare. Same to you, I thought. Not my problem if you flunked out of charm school.

Madonna vogued across the video wall, dividing and multiplying like some collagenic amoeba. Seamlessly the music segued into a track by the artist then still known as Prince. Doof, doof. Wang, wang. Time to hit the frog.

As I skirted the dance floor, I felt my tail-feathers begin to twitch. Weakened by alcohol, my body was succumbing to the all-pervasive beat. Some of these women are here to find a man, my libido wheedled. Perhaps one of them will show a little pity. ‘You should be so lucky,’ warbled Kylie Minogue.

What the hell. I shuffled into the fray. The dance floor was sardine-tight with bodies, a roiling cauldron of halfglimpsed faces and lurching torsos. As I sashayed deeper into the throng, Audrey bopped into frame, dancing by herself, flushed and radiant, a picture of pulchritude.

Sweet dreams were of this, and who was I to disagree? I hove-off at a respectable distance, took in the view and gave myself over to a little gentle grooving.

Then Stevie-boy appeared, hot on Audrey’s delectable tail. He sidled up close and proceeded to get as grabby as ever. But the bits he was trying to grab were strictly off limits, at least in a public place and without prior permission.

Audrey’s expression made her annoyance apparent. Girls just wanna have fun, not be mauled by monomaniacal morons. She removed his hand and mouthed something succinct and unmistakeable.

Clearly, Audrey was a girl who knew how to take care of herself. Gallantry, on the other hand, did not permit me to stand there, swaying on the spot, waggling my buttocks. When McQueen lunged again, I shoulder-shimmied into the breach and wang-dang-doodled him aside. He tried a flanking manoeuvre but I headed him off with a series of rapid-fire John Travolta arm-thrusts. Then I blocked all further attempts at advance with a space-invading frug-jerk combo enhanced with Elvis-inspired pelvic thrusts and I-Dream-ofJeannie neck wobbles.

Hep, I hoped, to my chivalrous intent, Audrey took the opportunity to vanish backwards into the crowd. Her foiled suitor scowled and gave me the finger. I flexed my groin in his general direction. Steam appeared to come out of his ears, but it was just artificial fog. Then he, too, melded into the crowd and disappeared.

My innovative terpsichorean technique had attracted a certain amount of attention. Beautiful people of every sex, gender and lifestyle orientation began backing away at a rapid pace. My career as a babe magnet was in tatters.

Hip-hop melded into rap. I collected my jacket and headed for the exit, pausing only to visit the men’s room. The original urinals were still intact and fully operational. I gave one of them the traditional greeting, then turned to the hand basins.

Despite the heavy bar traffic, there was only one other customer. It was Steve McQueen. He must have followed me in. I could see at once that he wasn’t there to relieve the pressure on his bladder. ‘Reckon you’re clever, don’t you?’ he slurred.

For a drunk, he was very fast. He swung wide and his fist connected with the side of my head before I saw it coming. I stumbled backwards, skidded on something slippery and landed flat on my backside on the floor.

Vicious Steve said something in Anglo-Saxon and cocked his foot for a kick. I rolled sideways and started scrambling to my feet. He grabbed the back of my collar and propelled me into a toilet stall. My fingers grabbed for the frame but found no purchase. A white ellipse rose to meet me. Pressure bore down on the back of my head, shoving my face into the toilet bowl. A flushing sound thundered in my ears. Niagara Falls descended.

I fought it hard, gripping the rim of the bowl and arching my back, legs flailing and kicking, my mouth and eyes screwed shut against the torrent of water. The grip on my neck was relentless.

I’m drowning, I thought. What a way to go. Ducked to death in a dunny. I thrashed and heaved and jerked, gasping for air, spluttering and retching. My head banged against the bowl like the clapper in a bell. My mouth collided with the hard enamel and I tasted salty blood.

‘Jesus,’ declared a distant voice. ‘Not again.’

Feet scuffled in the cubicle. Abruptly, the downward pressure ceased. The cavalry had arrived. My head flew backwards and I sucked at the air, triggering a coughing jag. Stars exploded in my eyes. Wrenching myself upright, I spun around. The men’s room was empty. I rushed towards the door. Angry. Dizzy. Intent on revenge. Justice. Something. Anything. A towel would’ve been good.

The doors swung inwards and my path was blocked by a pair of pretty boys in knit tops and bell bottoms. They stopped dead in their tracks and exchanged scandalised looks. Beyond them, the Metro was a seething mass of bodies, an inferno of swirling lights and deafening noise. My assailant was nowhere in sight. My hair was dripping, my shirt soaked. ‘Are you all right?’ inquired one of the tweenies.

Not according to the mirror above the wash basins. My lips were a pulpy red mass. My fingers went into my mouth and confirmed what my tongue had just discovered. My two front teeth were gone, sheared off just below the gum line. The canines jutted down on either side of the yawning gap, giving me the countenance of a drenched vampire. Dracula meets the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

A ponytailed punter brushed past me, entered the stall and commenced to decant. I jerked him aside, narrowly avoiding a hosing. Down beyond the lip of red-smeared white porcelain, way down in the yellowy murk, lay something that might have been a pair of shirt buttons.

As I stared down in disbelief, it suddenly occurred to me that maybe they could be re-attached, restored by the miracle of modern dentistry. Averting my eyes, I thrust my hand into the liquid.

‘You pervert,’ gasped the evicted pisser.

Just as my fingers touched their target, he slammed down the lever and a torrent of water flushed my fangs from my grasp.

‘Security!’ yelled a voice.