1. Louise #3
After saying my hellos to Phil Lowry and doing the standard dog and pony show small talk and glad handing with Compton, Krendler, and the better part of the leadership of the ATF—I manage to slip away from the larger conversation in favor of one of the open bars at the far end of the ballroom.
Even though I technically quit two years ago, stuffy social events like this make me crave the socially acceptable escape of a cigarette.
I look longingly out of the glass sliding doors to the terrace; guests huddled beneath the canopy of large outdoor propane heaters, flicking ash into the winter wind, and contemplate grabbing my stole from the coat check and trying to bum a Dunhill or Nat Sherman off of one of the fools.
I’ve begun to drift closer to the end of the bar nearest the cloakroom, when I catch sight of a curious young man standing twenty feet away from me.
He’s wearing the same cheap black polyester slacks, white button down, and likely rented black rayon vest and bowtie as the rest of the catering staff, but the telltale wisps of black and multicolored tattoo ink creep up over the top of his collar, nearly to his ears—which may or may not be pierced—hard to tell beneath the absolutely embarrassing halloween-special, dark brown wig he’s wearing.
What the hell is that plastic mop supposed to be giving? ‘Smokey and the Bandit’? ‘Aging 80s pop star’? Whatever it is—kid isn’t selling it.
At first, I mentally scold myself. What if he’s in cancer treatment?
Or maybe he’s got alopecia—and I’m being a complete and total asshole here expecting the twenty something to be able to afford a decent lace front on a catering gig paycheck.
Then his eyes catch mine, focused and startlingly blue.
That’s when I notice his eyebrows—so blonde they’re nearly white, completely at odds with his unkempt, dark wig.
He doesn’t break eye contact, just keeps his gaze locked to mine as I drift slowly toward him. Only after I traverse half the distance between us does he casually turn on the heel of his Walmart-special dress shoes and set off at a brisk pace in the opposite direction.
Without conscious effort, I gather the skirt of my dress, lifting the hem to allow myself a greater range of movement.
My speed picks up as much as possible while remaining surreptitious.
I follow his narrow back in the crowd, watch the slight bob of his head as he weaves between party goers and other waitstaff as he exits the main ballroom, on course for the cloakroom and stairwell, back down into the main rotunda.
I manage to close more than three quarters of the distance between us with ease—my heart thudding beneath my tongue, ears ringing with rising adrenaline—as I press my pursuit.
The curious caterer is only a few bodies away from me in the crowd when a hand closes around my bare bicep—the palms warm, but rough with callouses.
“Lou! Yeah, you—I’m talking to you!”
I round on my sudden captor, breath snapping into my lungs like wind into the sails of a tall ship.
“Hey! Where’s the fire!? I’ve been calling your name for like the last minute and a half, don’t tell me you’re already half in the bag—I haven’t even finished my first drink, and I don’t wanna have to rush to play catchup.”
Dennis Fucking McBride. Could he have worse timing?
My head snaps back, my prey long since disappeared into the crowd—the wind leaving my metaphorical sails with an exasperated sigh.
“I was on my way to the head. You want to hold my purse while I take a piss?” I snip at Dennis.
“No fucking way,” he scoffs, the mere suggestion that he might hold my bedazzled clutch for a total of two and a half minutes clearly an affront to his dignity.
“Good, then unhand me, you oaf—my eyeballs are practically floating.” I grumble, wrenching my arm from his hand.
“Jesus Lou, you might clean up nice—but your mouth could still use a bar of soap.” Dennis withdraws, adjusting his black satin bow tie beneath his clean shaven square jaw, his blue-green eyes glistening with laughter—his strawberry blond hair meticulously coiffed for the occasion rather than matted beneath his otherwise omnipresent FBI baseball cap.
“Oh no, I’ve failed to meet a man’s expectations of demure subservience, whatever shall I do?” I bat my lashes dramatically, clasping my hands beneath my chin.
“I thought you had to take a piss? Why are you still here giving me grief?” Dennis rolls his eyes, but there’s no denying the telltale quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“I have to wait until you’re done being a smarmy pain in my ass, and you make yourself useful—by offering to go to the bar and grab me another drink, or possibly an entire tray of those little mini brie and apple cheese puff things.
I’m fucking starving.” I prompt him, already in motion for the hallway, the bathroom, and any lingering possibility of finding my catering quarry from earlier.
“Manhattan?” Dennis calls after me, already on his own trajectory for the bar. I give him a thumbs up and continue weaving my way through other party guests.
I turn the corner, eyes scanning the crowd in vain for my mystery man in the bad wig.
No luck. I’m on my way to the ladies room to refresh my lipstick and make a show of taking a powder after making my excuses to escape Dennis—when I nearly crash headlong into uncle Martin—his eyes similarly somewhere other than his direct walking path.
“Uh oh, they made you fly out of Logan short notice and put on the full monkey suit.” I extend an open hand to keep him from walking directly into me.
“Oho! Agent Penny, fancy seeing you here,” he chuffs warmly, giving me a sarcastic wink with the overly professional ‘Agent Penny’.
“Everything ok?” I notice the thin sheen of sweat at his hairline, the sallow look to his usually rosy complexion. He really does fucking hate these kinds of gatherings, always has.
“Yeah, just claustrophobic in this cluster… I just got here a few minutes ago and I’m already wondering how soon is too soon to leave.” He shifts uncomfortably, pulling at the cuffs of his tuxedo self consciously—darting looks back over his shoulder every so often.
“I’ll tell you what, I’m stuck here until Lowry makes her big speech—then you can use me as an excuse to get out of here,” I offer, hoping to help relieve some of his misery.
I am rewarded with a big toothy smile and the crook of Uncle Martin’s arm as he offers it to me.
“Deal. Shall we, Louie?”
I link my arm through his and allow myself to be escorted back to the main party.