Dr. Richard and Carmen Akli welcome you to the marriage of their daughter Susan to Douglas Marlin, son of the Honorable Arnold and Amanda Marlin. The dinner, underseasoned but substantial, is over and everyone is around the laminate dance floor. DJ Armstrong is manning the decks.

Over the past three years, he has developed a remarkable reputation by word of mouth. Grooms, parents of bat-mitzva-ed girls, and socialites across central Maryland and northern Virginia share his business card and speak in reverential tones about his prowess in getting their guests to boogie.

Please be aware: this is not his day job.

He has stacks of records organized into mixes sitting under the table. Each mix has printed label affixed: JAUNTYSPROKET, FLEXIBLECRICKET, ROGUELEFTY, and so on. He asks that he be allowed at least an hour and half to properly set up his rig. He is more comfortable if he can do a sound check before the guests arrive. Now, he’s on edge since he only had an hour ten because once again his phone underestimated the traffic; it never gets right the wait making that left in Tyson’s Corner.

He is 12m05s into the STRAINEDPROBATE mix and has yet to look up from his equipment.

“Can you play Return of the Mack?” He hears through the ear uncovered by his headphones.

He considers its tempo. “I can play it in three songs.” He digs up the record from his bag and shuffles upcoming songs around to get a good transition.

In his pants pocket, his other phone vibrates. He grimaces. He puts the stack of remaining records back in his bag and loads up a playlist of three hours worth of music to play from his laptop. Again, that phone vibrates.

He scans the margins of the room. There’s a young man fixated on his phone. DJ Armstrong walks over to him. There’s a Wikipedia article about psychedelic mushrooms on the phone’s screen.

“Can you do me a favor? Stand behind the DJ booth with my headphones on and look busy for …” he glances at the message on the phone, “two hours. I’ll give you $300.”

“OK.”

“If I’m not back by then, play Livin’ on a Prayer and Don’t Stop Believing, kill the power, and walk away. I’ll pack up.”

“Sure, thing.” The young man takes a step towards the gear and stops. “Can I get the money now?”

Armstrong takes out his wallet, withdraws three $100 bills, and hands them over. He waits until the young man puts the headphones around his neck and starts bobbing his head before walking towards the back exit by the kitchen. He’s halfway down the corridor when he’s brought to a stop.

“Leaving so soon?” Amanda Marlin is standing behind him, one arm akimbo and the other holding a cocktail.

He puts on a bashful smile. “Oh, sorry, something urgent came up and have to step a away for a little bit. Don’t worry, the music will keep playing.”

“Doug was so exited to have you play his wedding.”

“Look, I know this timing is unfortunate. I’d be happy to refund all your money.”

“No. Get back to our party and do your job.”

“Ms. Marlin… I’m not sure what to tell you but it’s an emergency.” His phone vibrates, so he takes it out, glances at the message, and taps out a reply.

“I don’t know if you’re involved in some kind of foul business, but don’t you bring it back here. We’re respectable people.”

That’s enough. He steps towards her until there is only a foot between them. She leans away. He leans in and whispers in her ear. “I’ve listened to your husband’s calls. The ones to Cyprus, Panama, Oman, and Venezuela. I’ve transcribed them so I remember every word.” He smiles. “Sometimes his aide Kristen is on those calls too. They seem to be very close. I know my superiors have been told not take this any further, but if any of this got into the press, it would make his reelection a lot trickier.”

“You’re scum,” she whispers.

“Enjoy the rest of your party. And congratulations, Ms. Marlin.”

He walks as quickly as he can to his 2003 Corolla. Once he’s inside, he rests his head on the steering wheel. One deep breath and another. He starts the car, puts on Dr. Dre’s 2001, and begins the drive Langely.