“Uh, no, I have not,” I say, then add, “but I have been meaning to.”
If I worked the conversations with ladies at the bars this well, I really would be a virgin still.
“Oh, there's a table out in pre-function. I'll let the nice lady out there know to send you home with a copy of my books. Here, let me give you my info.” He slips out his wallet, grabs a business card, and hands it to me. “It has my email and phone number.”
His tone is like he just gave me directions to Jesus' tomb. The women are not-so-discreetly trying to sneak a peek. Just to be a jerk, I fold the card in half and stuff it in my front pocket.
“Thank you,” I say. “I'll let you know how I enjoy the books.”
“Yes, please do.” He clasps my shoulder and leads me away from Team Phil. He lowers his voice. “We are opening up internships this summer, and I would be delighted if you would apply. It's a marvelous opportunity to get first-hand experience and network.”
I still don't even know what Phil does, besides talk about people who whistle like canaries or something.
But I play along by nodding and saying, “I'll do that. Should I email you for details when I get home?”
“Yes, yes. At your first chance,” he says. “Let me know, and I'll put in a personal recommendation for you.”
If I didn't already hate Phil for being a wife beater, I would be happy to off him just because he oozes so much goodwill he must keep the heads of children in his basement. Yin and yang.
“Great, thank you.” I nonchalantly pull away from his grasp, then add in a casual tone, “So, you headed home now?”
He chuckles, though he sounds tired. I have a solution for this. A permanent one.
“Not heading home until tomorrow. Drinks with some of the other professors first, then back to my hotel for the night.” He shakes my hand again. “It was good meeting you, um, what was your name?”
“Ralf,” I say, and it amuses me that a guy named Ralf is going to have a gun to his forehead in a few hours.
I would like to ask him what bar he will be visiting or what hotel he is staying at, but both questions pose a risk of sounding alarming. I'll do it the traditional way then.
We have a long night of hanging out—Phil.
***
Phil drives a silver Lexus. The guy keeps adding to my reasons I want to pop one in his brain. I trail him in my rented Yaris to a place that claims to be a bar, but is more like a big restaurant that happens to have liquor.
Phil crosses the parking lot, meeting with a group of old men. They talk and laugh so loud I can hear them like they are in the backseat. And that's with the hum still giving a private one-note audition in my skull. Finally, they turn and head inside.
Time to move.
I grab my jacket and slide out of the car. The papers from my file on him are still in the passenger seat. I'm such an amateur.
I lean back in and shove the papers next to the console, then lock the car and slip on my jacket. The gun weighs down one side and the silencer the other. Interior pockets rule.
I do a quick Google search on my cellphone for the number to the restaurant and give them a call.
A pleasant female voice answers “Hello,” on the third ring.
“Yeah, how long is the wait?”
“For how many?” She's all southern honey. It's kind of hot.
“A party,” I say. “Five or six.”
“About fifteen minutes. Can I get a name?”
“No, thanks,” I say. “That's all I needed.”
I hang up, then step over the curb and onto a grassy knoll.
On the other side lays another parking lot. It's dimly lit. Perfect for hanging out until I'm certain Phil and friends have been seated. I can't stay in my car. My nerves are twitching.
The breeze sweeps through, messing up my hair and causing a small shudder.
I pull my jacket close and keep walking. People make their way between cars and buildings, chatting and being loud, the New Orleans nightlife well underway. Of all the cities I've been in, which, to be fair, number less than a dozen, New Orleans is definitely a favorite. If I get lucky, Karl will want to off a lot more people around here. I could roll with that.
I pull my phone from my pants pocket. It has been on silent this whole time. Maybe Syd has texted me. Maybe many times. She might be angry. The idea gets me a little riled up, and I tap the screen to see what I'm in for with the crazy woman.
There are no new messages.
***
Fifteen minutes passes incredibly slowly when standing in the middle of a poorly lit parking lot with nothing to do. It also passes incredibly fast when preparing to kill someone. I feel like I'm going to implode.