Page 1 of Doozer

CHAPTER ONE

Doozer

About two years ago…

IARRIVED AT the historic Douglas Hotel an hour late and pulled my bike up to the valet parking kiosk per the instructions on my invitation. I killed the engine, removed my helmet, and was immediately greeted by a skinny man wearing a red vest, holding a clipboard.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said, in an uptight tone. “This area is reserved for valet parking for guests of the Locke, Mancini, and Pratt holiday party.”

“Yeah, I’m here for that,” I said, pulling the invitation from my kutte pocket and handing it to him.”

“You’re a guest ofthisparty?” he asked, pointing to the invitation, his voice dripping with disdain.

“That’s right,” I replied, dryly.

I can’t say I was surprised at his reaction, considering I was equally shocked when the invitation arrived at the Sanctuary.

The valet looked at my name patch, then to the paper on his clipboard. He ran his bony finger down the page. “I’m sorry, sir but I don’t seem to have aDoozeron the guest list.”

“Believe me, buddy, I’m on it,” I said, running out of patience. “Look. I’ve got my invitation, so just tell me where to park my bike and I’ll find the party myself.”

“Sir, this event is a black-tie affair,” he said, looking me up and down.

“My tux is at the cleaners, what can I say? Listen, man, I’m supposed to be here tonight, and I’m already late, so—”

“Could you be on the list under another name? Perhaps yourpropername.”

My back muscles tightened.

“Check under Mancini,” I replied.

“Mancini?”

“Yeah. Marco Mancini. As in Locke,Mancini, and Pratt. The guy in the middle is my old man,” I said, pointing to the letterhead at the top of the paper. “Like I said. I’m on the list.”

“Of course,” he said, clearing his throat. “You can park over there.” He pointed to the adjacent lot.

“Tell you what. Instead of that, how about I park my bike right over there,” I said, motioning to a space on the sidewalk, near the kiosk.

“Well, I…I—”

“That way, you can keep an eye on her for me.” I pulled out my money roll, peeled off two twenties and stuffed them into the valet’s hand before he could get another word out. I then pulled into my private space and made my way inside.

The Douglas Hotel was as old as Portland itself and almost as beautiful. As I walked through the lobby, I was met with the usual amount of “stank face” from the hotel’s guests and a barrage of “May I help you?” from the staff. Of course, ‘May I help you?’ is code for “What the fuck is a degenerate biker like you doing in a respectable establishment such as this?” but I didn’t give a shit. I was used to the dirty looks and the inevitable “purse clutching” as I walked by that came along with being a tatted-up biker.

I made my way to the grand ballroom and found the festivities well underway. Even though it was barely past six o’clock, the dance floor was already a mass of suits, ties, and cocktail dresses. Not surprising as, in my experience, lawyers did two things to excess. Work and party. That is, except for my father, who was incapable of relaxing. The only reason he took Sundays off was because God commanded it. Even then, he’d always find some reason to sneak off to his home office after church. I was shocked when my sister told me Pop was retiring. I’d never once pictured Berto Mancini leaving his practice and couldn’t imagine him with free time on his hands.

Tonight was not only Locke, Mancini, and Pratt’s annual holiday bash, it was also my father’s retirement party, which meant he’d probably be on edge from all the attention he’d be getting. For all his faults, my father was a humble man, who had no need for “peacocking” as he called it. He referred to my tattoos as “feathers.”

I headed to the bar next to the DJ booth in hopes of getting a drink before seeing my old man. The DJ was blasting the typical dance crap specifically designed to help drunk white people find the beat no matter how wasted they got. I hated it but at least it wasn’t fucking Christmas music. Not that it mattered much to me as I wasn’t planning on staying any longer than I had to. I was here to congratulate my father on his retirement, avoid my mother’s annual attempts to get me to go to Christmas Eve mass, and get the hell out of here as soon as possible.

I ordered a Jack and Coke from the bartender and scanned the ballroom for my father while I waited.

“Look what the reindeer dragged in,” a voice shouted over the din of the dance music and I turned to see my sister, Carmen, dressed to the nines.

“Hey, sis. You look beautiful,” I said, giving her a hug.

“Thank you. I feel like a total dickhead in this dress,” she replied.

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