Nyte Prowler by Alex P. Berg

Author:Alex P. Berg [Berg, Alex P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Batdog Press
Published: 2020-01-29T23:00:00+00:00

19

Since Bill told Dawn we were providing security for a Texas Memorial Museum gala, I’d figured the gala would be held at the museum. That’s why I was so surprised when my phone guided me to a country club hidden in the hills of west Austin.

The place was about as swanky as Austin got. A sprawling building with hand cut limestone walls and a gleaming copper roof sat behind a brick driveway circle. An overhang large enough to cover a half dozen jumbo SUVs jutted over the front doors, held up by columns that I couldn’t have wrapped my arms around if I’d tried. Hedges in front had been trimmed into the shape of the letters ACCC, probably the country club’s initials, and manicured lawns stretched out behind it, the grass perfectly even and lusciously green despite the heat.

Instead of pulling into the circle drive, I coasted past the club and parked in the lot at the side. It wasn’t so much that I was embarrassed to park my twenty year old Suburban in front of such a fancy establishment, more that there wasn’t any space left underneath the overhang. Three catering vans were parked there, as well as a florist’s van and a huge pickup truck with a trailer attached to it.

With the truck situated in the shade of a tall pine, Dawn, Tank, and I hopped out and headed up the walkway toward the club. Chefs in white smocks shuffled back and forth between their vans and the entrance unloading racks packed with trays. A valet stand stood unoccupied near the front double doors, but I didn’t expect anyone to be working it yet. There were still a few hours until the event was scheduled to begin.

I let Dawn lead the way inside, though she didn’t know where we were going any better than I did. A florist in stained overalls pushed past us as we stepped into the cool conditioned air, weaving to avoid bumping us with the fronds hanging from the edge of an oversized vase. The racks clanked and clattered as the chefs wheeled them in, and someone in a darker smock shouted at them from down the hallway to bring the meats in next.

I gathered alongside Dawn and Tank next to a round table at the center of the entryway. Although people were in no short supply, they all appeared to have their orders. “Who were we supposed to meet again, Dawn?”

“Her name is Olivia Something-or-other. Last name started with an h, I think. Hey. You.” Dawn pointed at the nearest chef, a short Hispanic man with a thin mustache. “Do you know who’s in charge here?”

I think the guy understood English, though how much was in question. He gestured toward the banquet hall and nodded, muttering something incomprehensible.

Dawn headed further in, and I followed. The banquet hall was less hectic than the entryway, with barely a soul waltzing among the linen clad tables and padded chairs. There was one guy there, a young

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