Bootsy didn't hear Blaze, his ears were more intently focused on what was going on behind Blaze's voice. There was music – loud, and Bootsy could almost feel the lights of the club washing over his face in the thumping darkness. There was the bartender shouting at the line of patrons at the bar. And there was the undulating din of young people dancing and screaming at each other through the music, a lot of laughter as they flirted.
That made it considerably easier for Bootsy. There were only two clubs big enough to hold the number of people Bootsy heard in the background, and who also played the kind of music pumping away behind Blaze. Bootsy couldn't tell through all the tumult if Blaze (and no doubt Dee Dee) were sequestered away from the main dance floor, or if maybe they were using the cacophony of sound to meet clandestinely with someone out in the complete open.
Bootsy smiled, he didn't care why or with whom. He just knew where.
He set his jaw and grinned in satisfaction as he spoke into the phone, “Never mind. Wrong number.”