Page 42 of Open Season

If she was a regular here, she might have recognized Mitchell, might know him—and might remember way too much when she heard his throat had been slashed.

He hadn’t seen which car she got out of, but he could narrow it down. He got out of his car and walked over to that section of the parking lot, squatting down out of sight and quickly jotting down the tag numbers. He thought about going into the club and trying to find her. She had blond hair and had been wearing a red dress; he’d seen that much when the door opened. She should be easy to spot.

But he’d told Jimmy he couldn’t get free tonight, and now that Mitchell was dead, he didn’t want to show up after all, thereby placing himself at the scene of Mitchell’s last known whereabouts.

Sykes sighed. He’d have to sit out here and wait for the woman to leave, then follow her home. He needed to be overseeing the disposal of Mitchell’s remains, but he couldn’t be in both places at once. He’d just have to trust Buddy and his pal to be smart about where they dumped the body. After all, their asses were on the line, too. Taking care of the woman would have to be his priority.

The Buffalo Club was, if anything, even more crowded than it had been the week before. Daisy stood for a moment, letting her senses adjust to the overwhelming noise of voices and the band singing very loudly about someone named Earl needing to die, a song that a good many of the female customers were singing along with the band. Some man, probably named Earl, took exception to the song and hurled his beer at the band, which explained the chicken wire encircling the stage. Two very big men converged on the beer-hurler, and Daisy was pleased to see him escorted to the door. She’d just gotten here; she wanted to get in at least a few dances before a fight started.

“Hey, sweetheart, remember me?” a man said, appearing beside her. An arm went around her waist and she found herself being propelled toward the crowded dance floor.

She looked up at the tall blond man, who was trying to grow an Alan Jackson mustache. “No,” she said.

“Aw, come on. We danced last week—”

“No,” she said positively, “we didn’t. I danced with Jeff, Denny, Howard, and Steven. You aren’t any of them.”

“You’re right about that,” he said cheerfully. “I’m Harley, as in the motorcycle. Well, if we didn’t dance last week, let’s dance this week.”

Since they were already on the dance floor, that seemed like a good idea. Earl had died and the band was singing something else, which didn’t require half the audience to shout the lines along with them. People were twirling and dipping, so Daisy twirled and dipped right along with them, her hand in Harley’s, her sassy skirt swirling around her legs. Next came Elvis Presley’s “Kentucky Rain,” and Harley retained possession of her hand for that number.

“Say, what’s your name?” he asked, finally remembering that he didn’t know.

“Daisy.”

“Are you with someone? Can I buy you a drink?”

Oh, gracious, was he one of those men about whom Chief Russo had warned her? “I’m with some friends.” She gestured vaguely toward the tangled cluster of tables, because that still seemed like a safe lie. She added, “Thank you, but I don’t want anything to drink right now. I came to dance.”

He shrugged. “Fine with me. I think I’ll sit this one out.” He wandered off as abruptly as he had appeared, and Daisy looked around. So far, not counting the man whose testicles she had smashed, she had met six different men, and not one of them had really appealed to her. Maybe she was being too picky; though, really, she didn’t see how; she had danced with everyone who had asked her.

She saw Howard on the dance floor, and he waved. Maybe he would ask her to dance again; he’d been the best dancer of the bunch.

Then—oh, no—she saw him: the burly guy who had pulled her down onto his lap. He spotted her at about the same time and a horrified expression crossed his face before he turned sharply away.

She wanted to do the same thing, turn away and pretend she hadn’t seen him, but her conscience gave a sharp twinge. He shouldn’t have grabbed her and she hadn’t meant to hurt him, but nevertheless he had been in a great deal of pain and she owed him an apology.

Determinedly she began fighting her way through the crowd, trying not to lose sight of him. He seemed to be heading just as determinedly toward the men’s room, for all the world as if he intended to hide from her, though of course she had to be mistaken in her impression. He was at a club, he’d probably been drinking beer, so it stood to reason he had to urinate.

He made it to the short hallway leading to the bathrooms before she caught up to him, however, and disappeared through the scarred door as if the hounds of hell were after him. Daisy sighed and squirmed through a knot of people, ignoring both a protest (female) and an invitation (male); she felt like a salmon fighting its way upstream. At last, though, she managed to reach the wall near the bathrooms, where she planted her feet against all the nudges and shoves, and waited.

It seemed to take forever, and she had to refuse three offers to dance, before her quarry peered out from the hallway.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

For a big guy, he sure could jump.

He backed away from her as if she were the Antichrist, his beefy face turning red. “You stay away from me, lady.”

Daisy was taken aback; the man honestly seemed afraid of her. She blinked, then tried to reassure him. “Don’t be afraid,” she said as soothingly as possible. “I won’t hurt you. I just wanted to apologize.”

Now it was his turn to blink. He stopped backpedaling. “Apologize?”

“I’m very sorry I hurt you. It was an accident. I was just trying to get out of your lap, and I put my hand in the wrong place. I truly didn’t mean to crush your—” My goodness, she couldn’t say balls, though that seemed to be the most popular term, and neither did she want to call them his things, because after all she was trying to be more sophisticated about such matters. “—testicles,” she finished, with more emphasis on the word than she’d intended.

He flinched as if she’d hit him, and she realized she’d said the last word loudly enough that, despite the noise from the band, the people nearby had heard her and heads were turning.

His face turned redder. “Apology accepted,” he mumbled. “Just go away.”

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