Metro Girl (Alex Barnaby 1)

I stripped my clothes off and exchanged my bikini undies for a thong. I dropped the dress over my head and tugged it down. It was silver metallic with some spandex. It had a V-neck that plunged halfway to my doodah, and the skirt fell two inches below my ass. I swiped some mascara on my lashes, sprayed my hair into a style that looked like maybe my brain had exploded, and I tarted up my mouth. I’d brought two pairs of shoes with me…the sneakers and a pair of silver strappy sandals with four-inch stiletto heels. Shoes for every occasion. I slid my feet into the sandals and swung out of the bathroom.

“Holy cow,” Hooker said.

“Too short?”

“Now I’m flustered.”

Hooker had his hair gelled back. He was wearing black linen slacks, a short-sleeve black silk shirt patterned with fluorescent purple palm trees, and loafers without socks. He had a Cartier watch on his wrist, and he smelled nice.

“Easy to see how Puke Face got in. The door is completely broken,” Hooker said. “If there’s anything of value here, you should hide it or take it with you.”

I gave Hooker the photo of Bill to put in his pocket. “The only thing of value is the television, and it’s not that great.”

I followed Hooker down the stairs and out to the Porsche. Hooker drove a block and a half over to Washington and v

alet parked the car in front of a club.

“We could have walked,” I said.

“Boy, you don’t know much. You probably think owning a Porsche is about power and bling. Okay, power and bling is part of it, but it’s mostly about valet parking. It’s about the sucking up and the ogling and the envy. It’s about the arrival, baby.”

He was being funny, but there was some truth to what he said. There were about a hundred people milling around outside the club. These were the people who weren’t thin enough, young enough, rich enough, or famous enough to get on the A list. None of them had arrived in a Porsche. And none of them had given the doorman enough money to compensate for their shortcomings.

The doorman smiled when he saw Hooker and motioned him forward. I guess being a famous NASCAR guy has its compensations. The smile widened when he saw me attached to Hooker. I guess having legs that went from my ass all the way down to the ground had its compensations, too.

We took a moment to adjust to the dark and the lights and the pulse from the DJ. The women dancing onstage were all wearing feathers. Big feather headpieces, feathered G-strings, feathered bikini tops on their big fake boobs. The feathers were peach and aqua and lavender. Very South Beach avian.

“You do the men,” Hooker yelled at me over the music, pressing the photo of Bill into my hand. “Hit up the bartenders and security guys. I’ll do the women. I’ll meet you at the exit in a half hour. If you see Pukey, get up on a table where people can see you and start dancing.”

If you want to chat with someone in a club you have to yell in their ear or hope they read lips. I found a bunch of guys who knew Bill but none who knew where he was. A bartender gave me a cosmo. I felt a lot more relaxed after I slurked it down. I even started to feel a little brave. I met Hooker in a half hour and we left together.

“Did you get anything?” he asked.

“A cosmopolitan.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope. That was it.”

“I didn’t get a lot either. I’ll fill you in later.”

The valet brought the car around. We got in and drove three blocks to another club. The experience was almost identical, except this time the women performing were dressed like Carmen Miranda. Lots of fruit on their heads, colorful rumba ruffles on their G-strings, and rumba ruffles on the bikini tops that held up their big fake boobs. I drank another cosmo. And I found out nothing.

“Do you suppose it’s possible that we’re being followed?” I asked Hooker. “I keep seeing this same guy. Someone different from Puke Face. He’s all in black. Slicked-back hair. He was in the diner. And now he’s here in the club. And I think he’s watching me.”

“Sugar, everyone’s watching you.”

We hit a third club, and I belted back my third cosmopolitan. I screamed at a couple guys, asking about Bill. And then I danced with a couple guys. I had part of a fourth cosmo, and I danced some more. I was liking the music a lot. And I was feeling very unconcerned over Puke Face. In fact, I was feeling pretty darned happy.

In this club, the women onstage were men. They were all dressed in a jungle theme, and they were excellent, except I’d gotten used to seeing a lot of big fake boobs and it felt like something was missing here.

I’d stopped worrying about the time, worrying about meeting Hooker at the designated exit. Probably a half hour had passed, but for some unexplainable reason the numbers on my watch had gotten blurry. Actually, it occurred to me that I might be just a teensy drunk.

Hooker plastered his hand against the small of my back and he guided me off the floor.

“Hey,” I said. “I was dancing.”

“I noticed.”