by Mike Faricy
A waiter nodded, then smiled at her from across the room, called out what sounded like genuine thanks. The bartender waved good night to her like Oliver Hardy, a large paw up at shoulder height, fingers wiggling next to his idiotic grin. Other heads turned to appraise her from the rear then nodded approval as she strutted past, heels clicking.
“I’ll see what I can learn. Who knows, maybe she just went to Disney World or something.”
“Do you think, maybe?” she asked, sounding serious, as if she might actually be entertaining the suggestion.
“Well, ahh, maybe, but I doubt it. Let’s see what I can come up with.”
Once outside I asked,
“Where are you parked? I’ll walk you to your car.”
A little dark blue sports car, a BMW actually, suddenly pulled to the curb. I had no idea what model it was, other than out of my price range.
“Oh, no need, here is my car,” she nodded at the BMW and walked around the front to the far side just as the driver’s door opened and the hovering waiter jumped out. The car came up to just above his knees.
“All set to go for you, ma’am. I left my card on the console,” he added half under his breath, glanced at me, then said. “In case you need anything or forgot something, ya know.”
“Oh, you are so kind,” she smiled and continued to stand just a little too close. He had to brush against her, heavily, to get out of the way so she could crawl behind the wheel.
“I’ll call you later, Kerri,” I said to her tail lights as she drove off, signaled, and took a quick left around the corner. I repeated her license plate number over and over in my head until I reached my car and wrote it down on the back of a dry-cleaning receipt. I toyed with going down to the Spot, thought better of it, and went home. The last vestige of Kerri’s lingering perfume hit me as I opened the front door.
Thanks for sampling, Dev’s about to step in it. Pick up a copy of Russian Roulette for all the details and check out my other titles, all the best, happy reading and thanks, Mike
