Neon Nights Chapter 24
The “Zoo-co” fundraiser at Neon Jungle was built to impress.
Impress someone into opening their wallets wide to help "The African Animal Assistance Fund."
Whatever the hell that was.
The invite-only event was an extension of the Neon Jungle festival, and Alec had, according to his website, raised over 10 million dollars to help endangered species in remote locations across the globe.
Marc arrived fashionably late at a quarter 'til nine. Fashionably late didn’t matter all that much when you weren't invited in the first place, so he didn't sweat over it. He fished his tuxedo from the depths of his closet, honestly surprised when he saw it was still there and hadn't disintegrated since the last time he had cause to wear it seven years ago. Not one to get dressed up, he had to admit that putting on a tux again felt pretty damn good. His shoulders rolled back, his posture was a little straighter, and his walk was more polished. He felt Bond-like, minus the martinis and Aston Martin.
Maybe one day Hollywood would portray James as a pickup truck driving, coffee-killing, average Joe?
If they did, he'd nail it.
The VIP extravaganza was down by the marina at the STV Conference Center. There was a special parking lot cordoned off to shorten the walk through the neon-covered arches for society's elite, ensuring that people wearing tuxedos and evening dresses for their black-tie event wouldn't have to cross paths with a guy wearing a zebra head and matching striped speedo.
The parking lot was filled with every luxury car and SUV on the market today, and moored at the marina were at least fifty cruisers, day boats, and mini yachts. His police-issued pickup stood out like a patch of tall weeds on a freshly cut lawn. He went to get out of his truck when he heard a whistle come from his left. Carly pulled up behind him and looked him over like a construction worker at an office park lunch break.
"You clean up alright," she said with a coy smile. Marc bowed.
“Alright, wise ass. Let's see how you dressed to support the animal, whatever."
Carly opened her door and a black, open-toed high heel with toenails the color of a watermelon in July touched down on the pavement. When she stood, he took in an elegant and simple knee-length black dress with no straps, her shoulders and neck free to feel the soft evening breeze.
"Holy shit."
She winked at him, grabbed a tiny black clutch from the seat that couldn't house much more than a credit card and some lipstick, and nodded at his response.
"That's just what I was shooting for."
The weather was objectively perfect for an evening straddling the bridge between spring and summer, so nice out that it made you long to not reach either side in particular.
They walked up to a gate that looked like something out of The Lord of the Rings, with twisted and gnarled roots covering iron bars that arched ten feet into the air. It was covered in neon rope and made the whole experience feel akin to an alien ship landing in the jungle.
The man standing guard at the entrance looked like he might play football on Sundays, and he shot an icy glare in Marc's direction as he walked up.
"Name?" the man mumbled.
"Marc McKinley, and this is my plus-one, Carly Hill."
The bouncer ogled Carly up and down, trying to focus on the iPad in front of him.
"Don't see you. Private party only."
Marc took out his badge and showed it to the man. "Does this help us get on the list?"
"I'll have to get my supervisor. Wait here."
Before that man could arrive, they watched Alec walk up to the front entrance to greet a wealthy and fit couple in their early fifties with a smile too broad to contain even a fraction of authenticity. The man wore a tuxedo as well as a nominee on Oscar night, with perfectly coifed dark hair to match the outfit. The woman wore a canary yellow sequined dress that ended so high above the knee the nuns would never have allowed her in the doors of a church.
Marc leaned over to Carly and whispered, "I'll bet the animals appreciate all of this."
Then he called out to Alec.
"Alec, good evening. Can you tell my large friend here that we are working and need to check out the party?"
Taken aback at the interruption, Alec looked in the direction of the offending party that dared to intrude upon his conversation.
"Ahh, Detective McKinley and Detective Hill … Oh my." Alec turned back to the wealthy couple.
"Head down to the bar and have them make you a Sahara Slammer. It is out of this world."
When he walked over to them, his voice was harsh and hushed.
"I don't mean to be rude, but I would prefer not to have you two at the event. This is a very expensive private party, and I don't want the guests to feel awkward with the police here. Though you both clean up very well," Alec said, leering over Carly's dress.
"Who will know who we are?" Marc asked. "They might think I'm a waiter, but not the police. I'm sorry, but I need to insist. I promise we won't pull out badges or guns. How's that?"
Carly played the man's leering eyes against him and shot him a wink and an “OK” symbol with her fingers.
"Very well, please try to remain inconspicuous if you don't mind." Marc put his hands together in thanks.
"I'm sure I can pull that off, but Detective Hill looks good enough to cause some serious disruptions."
Marc hadn't expected the red carpet to be rolled out for them, but he was surprised at the degree of resistance Alec had shown to their presence. Maybe it was the stress of Trailer's death and the fact that he had to run the whole thing now?
Maybe he was afraid they wouldn't raise enough money for the animals and whatever the hell they had planned for them.
Even dressed to impress, Marc felt insignificant and out of place, but Carly had spent years in this world and seemed far more at ease than Marc.
Each step was a glide.
Each mannerism was polished and smooth.
Her body seemed to understand the jungle she was in and how to navigate it with confidence and charisma. Head after head turned, and Marc couldn't help but notice how striking she was.
He walked up to the first bar he saw and asked for a bottle of water. The bartender handed him a fancy-looking bottle called Bullet that was shaped like its namesake and featured a faux gold screw top. Maybe the irony of serving bottled water shaped like an implement of death for most animals was lost on Alec's team. He took a long sip, and though he didn't have a glass of tap water to compare, he had to say that this was damn good water.
Carly slid next to him and ordered a Sahara Slammer. "What kind of glass for you, ma'am," the bartender said.
She pondered the vast array of options on the bar in front of her before finally making her selection.
"Giraffe, please."
The bartender grabbed a foot-tall novelty glass in the shape of a giraffe and mixed the drink.
"Why the giraffe?" Marc asked.
"They are just tall dogs with silly necks. What's not to love?" "I'm impressed," Marc said.
"Why do you think Clark and I get along so well?" She held her glass up to his bottle of water.
"To the animals,” she said.
She bumped her drink into his and took a sip.
"You know you just shot your giraffe, right?” Marc laughed.
Marc walked down to the docks to admire the slew of high-end boats moored there for the event. DJ MIDNIGHT sat atop a special stage and wore a flat black mask with no markings. Shoulder-length black hair curled out of the back of the mask, and he wore black pants and a black t-shirt with the number twelve on it in blood red. Much to Marc's surprise, the high society crowd seemed to love the music and slithered and shook to the beats, albeit in a more dignified way than the younger versions of themselves over the hill.
His eyes scanned over the boats moored at the farthest end, which was clearly the VIP section for the VIP party. In the last slip was a dark black fifty-foot yacht with red accents that served as the Galactic Empire to the rest of the fleet's Rebel Alliance. The whole boat looked like it wanted to fight you for having the audacity to admire its menacing bow, intimidating lines, and neon red scythe on the back, with the word "MIDNIGHT REAPER" emblazoned on it. Both floors were filled with the newly rich and the hangers-on that wanted to be them or with them.
Guess being a DJ paid well.
Marc's eyes zoned in on the top deck of the boat, where he was happy to see a face he finally recognized.
Avery Bass.
