The Last JoyRide

Part 35

Saturday 10:44 PM

I pulled my phone from my pocket and walked toward the hideous gleaming blueish purple car resting nearly on the parking lot surface itself. I cut between the parked cars and ducked a little, so I would not draw the attention of the lot attendants. I crouched and waited for Joy to answer but, of course, no luck. I decided to leave her a message.

"It's the Dr. Dre Joy; I think I've found it."

I fumbled for my flashlight clipped to my front pocket and held it waiting.

"I'm going to get over to the car and read it out as fast as I can."

In just a moment more, I was beside the car. Of course, it was the last in the row before the club. I was going to be exposed, no two ways about it. I would have to make it quick and then play stupid or star-struck. These punks weren't that smart. I just hated to be recognized if this was the car, and from the looks of it, I would have staked my bankroll on it.

"Okay, Joy," I said as I casually walked in front of the car and around to the driver's side and placed the flashlight against the windshield, lighting up the top of the dash.

"It's 4 1 4 6 7 Sierra 1 6 5 5 5 6. Call me Joy."

I hadn't been noticed, so I ducked back into the line of cars, made my way back up to the end of the parking lot, and darted back into the alley of the adjacent buildings. I stopped alongside a small rolling dumpster and called her back.

I called her back. I hadn't told her where I was.

"Joy, if you are still in Buckhead, both me and the car are at club Tu Tu Tango. It's on Pharr Rd. It's a pretty happening place. Some sort of release party for one of these uber-talented DJs. It's right in the parking lot, but the place is attended."

I found my way back to the sidewalk above the club and continued my one-way conversation.

"I'm pretty sure it's valet only too. Looks that way, at least for the VIPs. It's one of those types of places. You have to keep the little people away from the talent, you know."

I felt nervous. It was not like Joy to not answer when we were out like this. For some reason, even speaking into her voice mail made me feel better. I paced back and forth on the corner for a moment, then decided to call one last time. Still, it rang with no answer. So, again I left a voicemail.

"Joy, Nick, listen, I think I'm going in. Maybe this is where you are; I could never understand what you said earlier. At any rate, I'll be inside. Going to get a beer and relax and keep an eye on the Dre until I hear from you. Call me back and let me know you're okay, please."

I decided to walk the entire block back to the front of Tu Tu Tango. It would kill some time and give me a few minutes to think. Yeah, the car would be out of sight, but I felt pretty confident it was going nowhere fast. I made the trip around the block fairly quickly and returned to the entrance. There was a growing line of people waiting behind the proverbial ropes to gain admission. My plan was to get in, have a drink and stay by the upstairs window, where I would be afforded a perfect view of the parking lot and, most definitely, the Dr's Impala.

The absurd wait was prolonged because the steroid pulsing imbeciles at the door could not resist flirting or trying their version of flirting with every female in line regardless of her escort status. Finally, I made it to the door, and I was in with a cold, non-plussed stare and twenty bucks for admission.

The place was alive with movement, a drone of chatter, and obnoxiously loud hip-hop music. The dance floor in the center of the room was full of people, primarily girls. It looked to be lit by neon and black light, and it gave the whole room kind of a cool effect. The DJ booth was flanked on both sides by even more stoic, muscled dunder-heads with well-modeled, arms-crossed positions, wearing dark sunglasses for Terminator effect. By looking at these ass-bags, I knew that the second even the sound of a firecracker would send them scurrying for cover. Like the "musicians" they were hired to protect, all symbolism and no substance.