Expensive, shiny cars filled both the valet and the individual parking lots, people that looked like they slept on stacks of bills filing into the club and handing off coats and keys as the sun settled into the horizon, bathing the sky in deep reds and oranges that bled into the blues and purples of dusk. As soon as you approached the doors, a young man – Max, according to his name tag – stepped forward to take your keys and coat, handing you a slip of paper with a number on it for collection. At the hostess stand, a woman with an elegantly curled ponytail and a name tag reading Daisy greeted you with a polite smile. "Welcome, do you have a reservation and ID?"