The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.
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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.
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 put 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. Très 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 at the faces 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 soirée 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 out why it was empty until close enough to see a tabletop placard announcing, RESERVED. We took a table with staffers from the station. Unfortunately, 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”.
Dani talked shop with reporters, discussed industry trends with home-office types, schmoozed station clients – car dealers, realtors, mobile-home manufacturers, supermarket owners – with either modest propriety or bawdy wit, depending on the client. After a half-hour, she called for a minute off her feet.
The closest chairs were at the still-empty RESERVED table. I set my beer on the white tablecloth and took a seat, gnawing a roll while she slipped off her shoes and squeezed her toes, cursing the inventor of high heels.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a voice at my back and a finger tap on my shoulder. I swiveled to a pout-mouthed man wearing a bow tie, purple vest, and a name card announcing EVENT MANAGER.
I set my roll on the table, picked up my drink. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry, but this table’s waiting for someone.” He pointed to the RESERVED card. I saw his glance take in crumbs of roll on the tabletop and a damp circle from my drink.
“The lady’s resting her feet. If the table’s owners arrive, we’ll move.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, ice on his vocal cords. “No one can sit here.”
“I hate to disagree with you, sport …” I said, about to point out we were already sitting.