11:45pm the taxi pulls up outside Scalabrini Ortiz 1331 ('capicua' - the word still resonates through my synapses), the familiar awning beckons like an inverse red-carpet of welcome, drawing me out of the icy breeze, tucking me into the long hallway. Following the well-trod path, following the light, warmth, the music, here I am again. It seems so long ago, was it really only a matter of weeks? So much has happened since then. So many miles, oceans, covered. But so little, it seems, has changed.

The usual suspects present themselves, perambulating proudly around the pista like a procession, a perverse parade. The Whisky Man, who J said was a cocaine dealer, incessantly singing and slurping, his flapping chops agape. The Little Old Man, with the compadrito hat on a rakish angle, swaying too and fro, a cheery sailboat tossed about amongst the waves of music and dance. Every time I look, he's on the floor with a different bamboozled victim. And of course the ubiquitous Betty, holding court with aplomb, from her throne in the corner, now the benevolent monarch presiding over the floor, but quick to anger, beware her dagger-glance; this Queen trumps everything.

The place enfolds around me like an old suit; familiar, comfortable. And yet, there's something amiss. Am I not playing with a full deck? There's someone missing...

I scan the seething dancefloor. Yes, not just the Royalty of the circuit are here, but also their Generals and Lieutenants, their Nobles and Jesters, amongst the commoners: the frizzy-haired negro, the cargo-panted nuevo dancer, the plastic-faced diva. Even the waitresses have thrown caution and their custom to the wind and are dancing tonight. And yet. And yet...

There are at least three people missing...