The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.

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       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 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.”