Saturday Night Fever [antikvár]

Prologue Everything is changing. The rainbow spray of lights across the disco floor captures rapture, splashing from face to waist to hands carving rhythms in the multicolored space. The blinding, bouncing white spots hit the tiers of tables behind the dance floor, freeze the speed-driven action for a second, then release their hostages contemptuously. On the other side of the room Bernie, the DJ, is high in his control booth, high on his fantasy of control. He plays the music you move to. He makes you go crazy or slow. And, every once in awhile, he howls through his mike so you don't forget just who is the wiz of 2001 Odyssey Ballroom. But, down at the first and best tier, ringside, the Faces know who really owns the place. Ask them and they'll probably laugh or lay you out. Who's the disco king? Whaddaya kidding? Tony. Tony Manero. Bobby C. is sitting at the only Reserved table with his pad and pencil out. He's sketching a gum-popping, heavy-knockered chick a table away. Her chewing is synched to the music. Her eyes are half-lids. Her mouth motion says she's on speed; her lids say 'ludes. Her breasts say Women's Lib has reached Bay Ridge, Brooklyn—but they lie. Bobby C. can spot the golden Jesus cross hanging right between those big, lying, braless boobs. And where there's a cross there's a stiff penalty for penetration. Oh sweet Jesus, Bobby C. remembers miserably. What the hell's he 1