Twenty minutes later he heard a vehicle enter from a block down, headlights shining across the deserted street. The car stopped and Lucas figured the driver was phoning inside the warehouse. Seconds later he heard a whining electric motor and the sound of the door ratcheting open.
He stepped around the corner and saw the taillights of a gold Lexus disappearing inside the warehouse, the door dropping like a portcullis. Lucas sprinted to the door and rolled inside the building. A dozen vehicles sat in the wide space, several little more than automotive skeletons. The burp of pneumatic tools punctured air smelling of petroleum and cigarettes. A short man, bald, his outsized arms blue with tattoos, jumped from the Lexus, eyes widening when he saw Lucas.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Lucas stood and brushed himself off. “I’m looking for Danny or Darryl Hooley. They around?”
The guy yelled, “Intruder!”
In seconds Lucas was surrounded by three men in grease-stained denim, two holding tools, the third pointing a black pistol at Lucas’s midsection. The men muttered among themselves as Lucas stood with his hands held innocently out to his sides.
“Who is he?”
“Guy rolled under the door.”
“Somebody get Danny.”
“He’s coming.”
A trim, thirtyish man appeared from the rear of the building, pencil tucked behind one ear, cigarette above the other. Red hair flowed from his head. He wore a blue work shirt tucked into denim jeans. A few steps behind him was a younger and skinnier version of the same man, hippie-long hair ponytailed with a blue bandana. His T-shirt touted one of the Dave Matthews Band tours.
“What do we have here?” the older man asked, raising an eyebrow at Lucas.
“It’s a bum,” one of the grease monkeys said. “I think.”
The man with the weapon said, “He said he was looking for the Hooley brothers.”
The older man slipped the cigarette from behind his ear, lipped it, lit it with a chrome Zippo. He blew a smoke stream to the side, his eyes never leaving Lucas.
“What do you want to talk to them about?” he said. “The Hooley brothers?”
Lucas smiled, crossed his arms, returned the man’s gaze evenly.
“I want to schedule a presentation,” he said.
CHAPTER 11
Saturday arrived, the day of Dani’s Channel 14 bash. The Franklin case had overridden the mental circuitry I use for day-to-day transactions, and I’d neglected to rent a tuxedo. I was out gathering materials to build a storage rack for my kayak when I had the memory-jogging fortune to pass a formal-wear shop by the University of South Alabama. I know tuxedos as well as I know theoretical physics, and had let a young, spike-haired clerk prescribe one for me.
“Nothing old and stuffy,” I instructed, remembering this was a big deal to Dani. “Something classy and contemporary.”
At five, I pulled on the leased tux and headed to Dani’s, pulling stoplight stares on the way, a guy in evening wear piloting an eight-year-old pickup painted gray with a roller.
Dani lived at the edge of the Oakleigh Garden District, stately homes from the 1800s. It was a lovely old home and Dani had lined the walk and fronting trees with flowers. A white limo sat at the curb of her modest two-story, the driver leaning back in his seat and reading the Daily Form. I parked ahead of the limo, walked the tree-shaded and flower-bordered walkway to her door, knocked, let myself in. Her living room was bright and high-ceilinged, with an iron fireplace at one end and a red leather grouping of couch and chairs at the other. A scarlet carpet bridged the distance. It was cool inside and smelled of the potions women use for bathing.
“Dani?”
She entered from the dining room. Her gown was a rush of red from shoulders to ankles, sleek and satiny and melded to her slender form.
“Helluva dress.” I grinned and slid my palms over her derriere.
“Whoa,” she said, grabbing my hands and stepping away. “Gotta keep the wrinkles out, at least for a while.”
“Of course,” I said. “Sorry.”
She had a chance to take in my rakish evening garb. I expected delight, instead received a frown.
“Where did you get that thing?”
“Tuxedo Junction. By the university. Tres chic, no?”
“It looks like something Wyatt Earp wore.”
I patted the crushed-velvet lapel. “The kid at the store said it’s a western cut. Very popular.”
Dani closed her eyes and shook her head.
“Popular at high school proms, Carson. Not adult events.”
I felt my face redden. “I didn’t know. Maybe there’s enough time to-”
“It’s all right,” she said, looking away. “It’ll be fine.”
“What’s with the limo outside?” I asked, happy to change the subject.
She ran to the window. “Do you think it’s for me? Could you check?”
The driver had been instructed to wait until a DeeDee Danbury was leaving, intercept her, and bring her via the white whale, not taking no for an answer.
“They’s a cold bottle of champagne in the back, suh,” he added. “Glasses in that box at the side. Cheeses and shrimps in the cooler.”
I fetched Dani. The driver opened the door with a flourish and drove off as smoothly as if on a monorail. I poured champagne and assembled plates of shrimp and cheese. Outside, Mobile slipped past and nearby vehicle occupants wrinkled their foreheads trying to peer through the mirror-black windows of the limo.
“Check it out, Carson,” Dani said, gesturing with her champagne glass. “They look like monkeys.”
The Channel 14 event was at the Shrine Temple, a high-ceilinged, marble-floored exemplar of baroque excess. Our driver pulled up front, jumped out to open the door. I think he bowed. We stepped into the path of Jenna Doakes, a weekend news anchor my girlfriend dubbed “Prissy Missy High ’n’ Mighty.”
Doakes regarded the departing limo with a raised eyebrow.
“Isn’t that a little Hollywood, DeeDee?”
Dani said, “You didn’t get one?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The station sent it for me,” Dani explained.
Doakes’s grin melted into confusion, then fear. She hustled away on the arm of her escort, shooting over-the-shoulder glances at Dani like she was twelve feet tall and glowing.
The soiree was in the ballroom, entered via a dozen marble steps sweeping to the floor, spotlit top and bottom. The only thing lacking was the monocled guy announcing the arrivals.
We descended to the milling crowd. Soft light fell from above, a sprawling chandelier resembling a wedding cake iced with glass. The edges of the cavernous room were columned every dozen feet, walls of dark velvet. Forty board feet of food waited at the rear, carved roasts of beef, glazed hams, shrimp, crab cakes, cheeses, breads, sweets. A fountain dribbled minted punch. Three ice sculptures rose above the food: two swans and a four-foot-tall Channel 14 logo.
Three bars were at the edges of the room, black-vested barkeeps already pouring fast to manage demand. On the stage, a ten-piece band tuned up.
The round tables were filling fast with employees and clients and guests. I saw a vacant table near the stage. I couldn’t figure it out until close enough to see a tabletop placard announcing RESERVED. We took a table with staffers from the station. I was the only attendee in a gunslinger tuxedo.
The band kicked in and we launched into the mingle portion of the program, Dani moving like a dervish, barking “Hey-yas” and “How-de-dos” and spinning from one clot of revelers to the next. I finally got to meet the news director she adored, a shambling, fiftyish guy named Laurel Hollings. Hollings had missed a button on his shirt, mumbled when he spoke. He kept checking his phone, maybe hoping some major catastrophe might pull him from the event. I liked Hollings from the git-go, even more when he expressed admiration for my tuxedo, saying he wished he “had the balls to wear something like that.”