“My friend rescued us. The wheelchair was his idea. And I took an entire table down with me when I stood up. No one noticed you in the wheelchair.”
“Very nice. If you’re here around six o’clock, we can get shit-faced again. As you can see, I’m the grieving widow today. Got a lawyer meeting, a fucking memorial ser vice, and then I’m heading for a bar.”
“Sorry, I’m on my way to check out. How much longer are you going to be here in Miami?”
“As long as it takes. At least through the weekend. They still have Oscar on ice.”
I raced up to the room, gathered our belongings and put them into our two travel bags, and settled our bill. I left the lobby and took a position in the porte cochere, just to the side of the hotel entrance. I had our bags in hand. I was mentally cracking my knuckles, praying that Hooker didn’t drive up simultaneously with Roger Estero. I blew out a sigh of relief when I saw the SUV cruise down the street and turn onto hotel grounds. Hooker stopped in front of me, and Beans stared out at me. He gave a loud woof and the car rocked.
I opened the side door and tossed the bags onto the backseat. I closed the door and was about to get in next to Hooker when I was brought up short by my purse strap. It was Estero, and he wasn’t happy.
“I should have known there was something fishy about the way the dog was acting with you,” Estero said.
I tugged at the strap. “Let go of my bag.”
“I want the dog.”
“It’s Hooker’s dog. If you don’t let go, I’m going to start screaming.”
“Hooker’s a dead man as soon as I get the word. And I don’t care how loud you scream, I’m gonna get that dog back.” He dug his fingers into my arm and dragged me to the rear of the SUV. “Open the door.”
I started shrieking, and Estero clamped a hand over my mouth. I bit him, and he jerked his hand away, taking my bag with him.
I heard someone calling for security. Beans was barking. Hooker was yelling for me to get in the SUV. Estero was screaming threats, trying to get a handhold on my shirt. A bellman wedged himself between Estero and me, I rammed myself into the SUV, and Hooker took off while my door was still open.
I pulled the door shut and turned in my seat to look back at the hotel. “He’s got my purse.”
“Do you want me to go back and get it?”
“No! I want you to go far away from here.”
“How do you feel about North Carolina?”
“North Carolina would be good.”
“Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?”
I had a mental head-slap moment. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. I’d completely forgotten.
“No,” I said. “I usually go home to my parents’ for Thanksgiving, but they’re going on a cruise this year. My dad won it in a raffle at his lodge. How about you?”
“My parents are divorced and holidays are always a tug of war. I avoid them when I can. I was planning on defrosting a Thanksgiving pizza and watching a ball game with Beans. You’re welcome to join me.”
“I can’t believe I forgot Thanksgiving.”
“When I went back to get our stuff from Felicia, her kitchen was filled with women making pies. She invited us to stay, but Gobbles needs to get home. He gets to see his kids on Thanksgiving. It’s a big deal for him.”
“It must be hard to be separated from your kids.”
“Like losing Beans,” Hooker said.
Traveling by private jet is painless. No waiting in line. No security hassles. No kids kicking the back of your chair. Hooker’s Citation is white with a narrow black-and-gold stripe running the length of the plane, and HOOKER written on the tail. Very sleek. The interior is cream leather and beige carpeting, with a small refreshment center in the front, by the door, and a small but comfortable lavatory in the rear. There are three captain’s chairs on one side of the aisle and two captain’s chairs plus a custom-made dog bed on the other. I was sitting across the aisle from Hooker. He had a movie up on the screen but my mind was elsewhere. It was early evening, and we were flying into Concord, North Carolina. We dropped below the cloud cover, and familiar neighborhoods popped into view. Houses were sprinkled across the countryside and clustered around lakes. We flew over Kannapolis. That was Earnhardt country. Lots of open space and a rickety little town. A big strip mall toward one end. Lake Norman sprawled to the west. Mooresville attached to the northeast end of the lake and Huntersville attached to the southeast end. A lot of the drivers and crew chiefs lived in Huntersville and Mooresville. There were condo complexes, high-end houses and golf-course communities, redneck bars, pretty shopping centers, and some fried-food restaurants.
The Citation touched down and skimmed over the asphalt runway. Five thousand five hundred feet long. It was a small airport used only by private planes. Hangars lined up on one side, with a terminal building in the middle. The NASCAR hangar sat at the far end. The sign on the terminal stated that this was NASCAR country. And it was accurate. NASCAR fans are all over the place, in every state, but you couldn’t throw a stick without hitting one in greater Charlotte. NASCAR was on bumper stickers, personalized license plates, shirts, hats, flags, dog collars, jackets, lamps, clocks, boxer shorts, bobble-head dolls, and pajamas.
Hooker’s black Blazer was parked by the Stiller Racing hangar. We loaded Beans into the back and watched Gobbles walk to a rusted-out Jeep.
“What happened to your ’vette?” Hooker asked him.