Lieutenant, I’ll do what I can.”
“Fine. I’ll be right over-“
“Wait!” Koesler’s tone was forceful. “Not now. Not tonight. I have several extremely important appointments. I simply cannot break into that schedule. I simply can’t.”
Though disappointed, Tully would not be choosy-and he knew it. “First thing tomorrow then?”
“Yes.”
“Fight all right?”
“Fine.”
“I’ll see you then.” Tully hung up.
The housekeeper’s voice came from the dining room. “Dinner, Fathers.”
Koesler left his now empty glass on an end table. Dunn carried his unfinished martini with him. “It happened, didn’t it?” Dunn was elated. “You got called into the Keating case. He’s officially … what-not dead?”
“Missing.”
“And they want you to help find him. Delicious.”
“Look, could we forget this for now? I do have some important appointments this evening, and I’d like to try to enjoy supper without courting indigestion. Who knows, maybe they’ll find Father Keating before tomorrow morning.”
“Let us pray.”
“Okay. Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord.”
“Amen.”
“Amen indeed.”
7
For a Monday night, the crowd wasn’t bad. The Fast Lane actually was filled with customers. In that sense, it wasn’t a bad crowd. But there was no line of people waiting to get in.
Pat Lennon and Pringle McPhee arrived around 9:00 P.M., which, for that establishment, was the shank of the evening.
They’d met for dinner after work. They’d been doing that with some frequency lately. After dinner, Pringle had suggested they visit The Fast Lane. The club, in a downtown section known as Bricktown, had been open only a few months and she hadn’t been there yet. Pat was not eager to go; she’d been there once and didn’t much care for it. But Pringle’s suggestion was more an appeal. So Pat agreed, with the proviso that they keep their visit brief.
The sound assaulted them as they opened the door. Pringle smiled. It was her sort of place. Pat winced and acknowledged to herself that they were doomed to shout for pretty much the rest of the evening.
They were faced with a choice: upstairs or downstairs?
“What’s down?” Pringle asked loudly.
“Pool tables. Adult-very adult-video games,” Pat answered just as loudly.
“And up?”
“Dancing. The club.”
“Then it’s up.” Pringle took the stairs, followed by Pat.
It was just a few steps to the first-actually the second-level, the dance floor. Pringle’s mouth dropped open as she beheld the surreal scene.
The building was rectangular with two rectangular tiers above the dance floor. Looking up into the high recesses of the vaulted ceiling, Pringle could imagine herself in a bullring, the Colosseum, or an ancient opera house … though it was safe to say no concert hall had ever heard a sound like this.
The noise level was several times louder than a screeching jet. The dance floor was almost choking with gyrating bodies, all amazingly there of their own volition. Except for those who were dancing so close they were almost on the other side of each other, it was difficult to tell who was whose partner. From the two upper levels, spectators enjoyed a more encompassing view. And they were enjoying the view; otherwise why would so many be crowded against the railings taking in the action below?
In a reserved spot in the uppermost tier sat a very kinetic disc jockey. He not only played the tapes, he controlled the volume, the fluctuating glitter and flash, the strobes, and the video projectors that threw much- larger-than-life images of the dancers onto the gigantic screens-not unlike those in sports palaces that endlessly repeat instant replays.
Pat and Pringle took the stairs. Arriving at the second tier, they discovered why so many of the patrons were clustered at the inner railings. All the alcoves were occupied by couples, threesomes, and quartets in various stages of assignation. Here and there fronting the outer walls were black granite-and-marble bars with soft, cushy stools These were pretty well occupied, although there was an occasional empty stool.
Not only was it impossible not to be overwhelmed by the music, they could feel it. The entire floor throbbed to the tempo that spread concussively into and through their bodies.
The scene was not much short of a full-blown bacchanal.
Pringle squeezed her way to a bar and got drinks for herself and Pat. They found a spot near one of the corners where they could watch most of the action-on the floor, at the bars, along the railings, and, if one considered sex a spectator sport, in the alcoves.
“I had no idea!” Pringle almost had to shout to be heard above the din.
“They don’t leave much to the imagination,” Pat yelled back.
As they took in the action, it was easy to spot singles mingling in the crowd. It was hard not to pity them. Most were desperate for someone-anyone-who would value them. And most would fail to find that certain someone here.
What with the haze-there were only nominal smoke-free areas in the club-and the kaleidoscopic lighting, identifying specific dancers was challenging. But even in this maze, Pringle thought she spotted someone she knew, someone everyone knew. “Isn’t that …?”
Pat tried following Pringle’s line of vision, “Isn’t that … who?”
“You know …” Pringle was uncertain. “The gossip columnist? With the
“Where?”
“There. Don’t you see?” Pringle was now pointing. “Dancing … there, near the far corner … see?”
Even though the two of them were almost shouting, they also had to face each other and mouth their words exaggeratedly in order to communicate through the clangor and resonance.
Gradually, Pat’s vision did manage to cut through the smoke and the strobe flashes. “Very good, Pringle. It is indeed, Sally Dean.”
“No, no …” Pringle shook her head. “Lacy De Vere.”
Pat grinned. “I knew her when she was Sally Dean.”
“Really?” Pringle turned to look at the subject in question and then back to face Pat. “She changed her name? I didn’t know that.”
“Pringle, she-“ Pat stopped and jerked her head toward a justvacated alcove. She and Pringle made a beeline for the space and settled into the chairs. They were as grateful for the quasi haven from the noise as they were for the seats. Now at least they could carry on a conversation without immediate threat to their vocal cords. “Pringle, she changed just about everything. Her name-legally; her hips-liposuction; her breasts-implants; her nose-plastic surgery; her hair coloring-her hairdresser knows; and several husbands-divorce.”
“Wow! I would have guessed the hair-that’s amost unlikely shade. But I didn’t know the rest.”
“We worked together-no, at the same time-at the
“I knew you’d been at the Freep,” Pringle said, “but … Sally Dean? I never heard of her.”
“Don’t feel bad. Not many people remember the name. I’ll never know how she got past the personnel director. Ordinarily he was one of the best in judging prospective employees, but he sure blew that one. Or maybe,”
