A Garden of Vipers by Jack Kerley

his arms, returned the man’s gaze evenly.
    â€œI want to schedule a presentation,” he said.

CHAPTER 11
    Saturday arrived, the day of Dani’s Channel 14 bash. The Franklin case had overridden the mental circuitry I use for day-to-day transactions, and I’d neglected to rent a tuxedo. I was out gathering materials to build a storage rack for my kayak when I had the memory-jogging fortune to pass a formal-wear shop by the University of South Alabama. I know tuxedos as well as I know theoretical physics, and had let a young, spike-haired clerk prescribe one for me.
    â€œNothing old and stuffy,” I instructed, remembering this was a big deal to Dani. “Something classy and contemporary.”
    At five, I pulled on the leased tux and headed to Dani’s, pulling stoplight stares on the way, a guy in evening wear piloting an eight-year-old pickup painted gray with a roller.
    Dani lived at the edge of the Oakleigh Garden District, stately homes from the 1800s. It was a lovely old home and Dani had lined the walk and fronting trees with flowers. A white limo sat at the curb of her modest two-story, the driver leaning back in his seat and reading the Daily Form . I parked ahead of the limo, walked the tree-shaded and flower-bordered walkway to her door, knocked, let myself in. Her living room was bright and high-ceilinged, with an iron fireplace at one end and a red leather grouping of couch and chairs at the other. A scarlet carpet bridged the distance. It was cool inside and smelled of the potions women use for bathing.
    â€œDani?”
    She entered from the dining room. Her gown was a rush of red from shoulders to ankles, sleek and satiny and melded to her slender form.
    â€œHelluva dress.” I grinned and slid my palms over her derriere.
    â€œWhoa,” she said, grabbing my hands and stepping away. “Gotta keep the wrinkles out, at least for a while.”
    â€œOf course,” I said. “Sorry.”
    She had a chance to take in my rakish evening garb. I expected delight, instead received a frown.
    â€œWhere did you get that thing?”
    â€œTuxedo Junction. By the university. Très chic, no?”
    â€œIt looks like something Wyatt Earp wore.”
    I patted the crushed-velvet lapel. “The kid at the store said it’s a western cut. Very popular.”
    Dani closed her eyes and shook her head.
    â€œPopular at high school proms, Carson. Not adult events.”
    I felt my face redden. “I didn’t know. Maybe there’s enough time to—”
    â€œIt’s all right,” she said, looking away. “It’ll be fine.”
    â€œWhat’s with the limo outside?” I asked, happy to change the subject.
    She ran to the window. “Do you think it’s for me? Could you check?”
    The driver had been instructed to wait until a DeeDee Danbury was leaving, intercept her, and bring her via the white whale, not taking no for an answer.
    â€œThey’s a cold bottle of champagne in the back, suh,” he added. “Glasses in that box at the side. Cheeses and shrimps in the cooler.”
    I fetched Dani. The driver opened the door with a flourish and drove off as smoothly as if on a monorail. I poured champagne and assembled plates of shrimp and cheese. Outside, Mobile slipped past and nearby vehicle occupants wrinkled their foreheads trying to peer through the mirror-black windows of the limo.
    â€œCheck it out, Carson,” Dani said, gesturing with her champagne glass. “They look like monkeys.”
    Â 
    The Channel 14 event was at the Shrine Temple, a high-ceilinged, marble-floored exemplar of baroque excess. Our driver pulled up front, jumped out to open the door. I think he bowed. We stepped into the path of Jenna Doakes, a weekend news anchor my girlfriend dubbed “Prissy Missy High ’n’ Mighty.”
    Doakes regarded the departing limo with a raised eyebrow.
    â€œIsn’t that a little Hollywood,