The car rolled to a stop a short distance from the wrought-iron gate. The gateman stood in his usual spot—entirely naked except for a pair of scuffed black shoes—his skin glistening faintly under the harsh afternoon sun. Behind the high wall, the heavy thump of bass and overlapping laughter spilled out like an invitation.
"Does she always host parties?" Melissa asked from the back seat, her voice tight.
"There wasn't one when I came with Becky," I said.
"Then why would she agree to meet us today, at her house, on a day she has a full gathering?" Melissa's tone sharpened, the calm director reasserting herself. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she scanned the gate. "That's not a coincidence."
The gateman started walking toward the car, his stride unhurried and professional.
"Here comes Mr. Pinky Dick," Mercury announced cheerfully.
