Metro Girl (Alex Barnaby 1)

“I’m telling you it’s not so bad,” Hooker said. “Well, okay, it’s pretty bad, but I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll buy you another hat. A nicer one. Hell, I’ll buy you a car. Would you like a car? And you’re still cute. I swear, you’re still cute. If you put your little pink skirt on, no one’s gonna notice your hair.”

I just stared at him. I could feel that my mouth was open, but there weren’t any words coming out of it. I was all out of words.

“Oh boy,” Hooker said. “You’re upset, aren’t you? I really hate when you’re upset. You’re not going to cry again, are you? I’ll do anything. Honest to God, I’ll do anything. What would you like? A vacation? A good seat for Daytona? Marriage? Do you want to get married?”

“You’d marry me?”

“No, not me. But I could find someone.”

I sucked in some air.

“Only foolin’ with you,” Hooker said. “Of course I’d marry you. I mean, it isn’t like your hair won’t grow back, right? Any man would be lucky to get married to you.”

“And you’d marry me, why?”

“Because I just feel so sorry for you. No, wait a minute that’s not it. That’s a bad answer, isn’t it? Because…I don’t know why. I was trying to make you happy. You know, take your mind off your hair. Women always want to get married.”

“I appreciate the effort, but I don’t want to get married.”

“Really?”

“Not now, anyway. And not to you.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“For starters, I hardly know you.”

“I could fix that.”

“No! I can’t afford to lose any more hair.”

I put my pink hat on, settled back in my seat, and called Judey to check on Bill.

“He’s sleeping like a little lamb,” Judey said. “I’m keeping him comfy. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Hooker had a country western station on the radio. Some woman was singing about her man dying and her heart breaking. And if that wasn’t bad enough it sounded like she didn’t have a home and then her dog ran off.

“See,” Hooker said. “You don’t have it so bad. You could be like that poor woman singing. Her boyfriend died and left her all alone. And you just lost a patch of hair.”

“Do you like country western music?”

“I hate it. Depresses the shit out of me. I just get sucked into it every now and then. One of those Texas things.”

I searched for a rock station, didn’t have a lot of luck, and finally settled on Latin dance music.

“Unless you have a better idea, I’m taking us back to my condo,” Hooker said. “I don’t know where else to go, I could use some new clothes, and I wouldn’t mind trading this car for my Porsche.”

“Don’t you think that might be dangerous? We’re the only ones who know where the canister is located. Suppose the bad guys are waiting for you to go home?”

“I’ll deal with it. I need a place to think.”

Hooker drove down Alton Road and turned left onto First Street and then onto Washington. “I’m still hungry,” he said. “I’m going to run into Joe’s and get some take-out stone crabs.”

He double-parked and ran into the restaurant. A parking place opened up in front of me, so I scooted over behind the wheel and parked the Mini. Ten minutes later, Hooker came out with a bag of food and slid in next to me.

I returned to Alton Road and entered the parking garage. Hooker had two numbered spaces. His Porsche was in one. I pulled the Mini into the other, beside the Porsche. I caught a flash of movement in my rearview mirror. I looked up and saw Slick move toward us, his white sling standing out in the dim light.

I threw the Mini into reverse and gave it gas. The car jumped back, there was a shriek and a thud, and Gimpy tumbled off to the side. Slick jumped in front of the Mini, arms wide in a stop gesture. I shifted into drive, stomped on the accelerator, and bounced Slick off the hood. I swung the car around and headed for the exit. Gunshots echoed in the cavernous space. I gritted my teeth, put my head down, and sped out of the garage.