“Some food,” Hooker said.
We went to a diner on Collins Avenue. We had beer and burgers, French fries and onion rings and chocolate cake for dessert. There was healthier food on the menu but we weren’t having any of it.
“The all-American meal,” Hooker said.
“Did you ever eat here with Bill? Do you think anyone knows him here?”
“Pick out the prettiest waitress and I bet she knows Bill.”
I had a photo with me. A picture of Bill smiling, standing beside a big fish on a big hook.
The waitress dropped our check on the table and I showed her the photo.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“Sure. Everyone knows him. That’s Wild Bill.”
“He was supposed to meet us here,” I said. “Did we get the time wrong and miss him?”
“No. I haven’t seen him in days. I haven’t seen him hanging out at the clubs, either.”
We left the diner under clear skies. The rain had stopped and the city was steaming itself dry.
“You’re getting better at lying,” Hooker said, when we were belted into the Porsche. “In fact, you were frighteningly convincing.”
He turned the key in the ignition and the car growled to life. When you grow up in a garage you learn to appreciate machinery, and I got a rush every time Hooker revved the Porsche. As vocal as I was about hating NASCAR, I’ve been to a couple races. Last year I was at Richmond. And the year before that I was at Martinsville. I wouldn’t want to admit to anyone what happened to me when all those guys started their engines at the beginning of the race, but it was as good as any man had ever made me feel in bed. Of course, maybe I was just sleeping with the wrong men.
“Now what?” Hooker wanted to know. “Do you want to flash that photo some more tonight?”
It had been a long, exhausting day with a whole bunch of terrifying moments, starting with the takeoff from BWI. Nothing had turned out as I’d hoped. My sneakers were wet, my skirt was wrinkled, and I needed a breath mint. I wanted to think that the day couldn’t get any worse, but I knew worse was possible.
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s keep going.”
We were on Collins, heading south. The art deco buildings were lit for the night and neon was blazing everywhere. There were surprisingly few people on the street.
“Where’s the nightlife?” I asked. “I expected to see more people out.”
“The nightlife doesn’t start until midnight.”
Midnight! I’d be comatose by midnight. I couldn’t remember the last time I stayed up that late. It might have been New Year’s Eve three years ago. I was dating Eddie Falucci. I was a lot younger then. I pulled the visor down to take a look at my hair in the mirror and shrieked when I saw myself.
Hooker swerved to the right, jumped the curb, and skidded to a stop.
“Ulk,” I said, flung against the shoulder harness.
“What the hell was that?” Hooker asked.
“What?”
“That shriek!”
“It was my hair. It scared me.”
“You’re a nut! You almost made me crash the car! I thought there was a body in the road.”
“I’ve seen you drive. You crash cars all the time. You’re not going to pin this on me. Why didn’t you tell me my hair was a wreck?”
Hooker eased off the curb and cut his eyes to me. “I was worried it was supposed to look like that.”