Neon Girl

Scene 12 - Busted

T-shirts posing as British flags wave in my face as I squeeze my size zero body onto the dance floor. I claim a square near a group of hipsters who must have missed the memo about the theme. The crowd has grown, but it doesn't faze me as I blast off, wiggling and Bernie-ing the Southern Comfort into my system.

As the bass hammers against my eardrums, I notice a glover tunneling between the bodies. When he gets close enough, I realize it's Mickey. We dodge and weave toward each other and he starts getting busy, assaulting me with another freaky light show. People sway around us as they're pulled into the vibe, and I let the chaos take me away for as long as Mickey can keep up.

The beat changes and the crowd gets distracted. Mickey clicks off his gloves and yells into my ear. "You've got some smooth moves, Mel! I've noticed you've been making the rounds. Scouting for scouts, huh?"

You've noticed me making the rounds? Do I need to worry about you, Mickey?

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"I saw you go into an elevator with Hart earlier."

"You know Hart? I was singing for him in the elevator, by the way."

Don't get any creepy ideas, glover boy.

"I don't know him personally, but I wanted to give you a heads-up about him. I don't think he's the kind of scout you want to associate with."

"What do you mean? He's pimping?"

"No."

"Is he a con-artist?"

Mickey looks around like someone is going to hear us through the thumping bass. "Not exactly. He's part of an outfit with an unsavory history."

What am I supposed to do with that information? If Mickey is Clutch's friend. then he's probably not trying to scam me. But the guy is still a stranger as far as I'm concerned. Just as I'm thinking it's time to call it a night and get my drunk friend home, Mickey's eyes go wide, and he belts out a blood-curdling cry.

I barely have time to throw my arms under his shoulders as he falls face first onto the dance floor, taking me down with him. I can tell by his crushing weight that he's out cold, and I ignore the pain in my elbow where it slammed into the ground as I push him off. That's when I notice something sticking out of the back of his shirt. It's a dart with a fuzzy blue feather on the end.

What the hell?

A girl screams and a man yells behind me. "Everybody on the floor!"

The music dies and a hundred bodies tuck and roll. Somebody lands on my back. A big somebody. "Don't move!"

I do what he says, since the guy is forcing my face into the polyurethane. Something stiff digs into my hip, and I glance over my shoulder at the badge on the guy's government-issue nylon jacket. Crap! A cop. When did Vegas Metro arrive? And here I am smelling like the inside of a liquor cabinet.

I lift my head high enough to see another cop chasing a guy toward the elevators. No doubt, Mickey's attacker. What an idiot. Did he think he could get away with darting someone on a rooftop? Who darts people, anyway?

The running cop yells, "You picked the wrong roof, asshole!"

Just then, a shadow slips out of the elevator room and steps in front of the attacker. It's Hart, and he delivers a Matrix-style kick to the guy's jaw, dropping him right there. The cop slams into the bad guy and they wrestle around on the floor. A few seconds later, the cop drags the guy up by his handcuffs.

"All clear!" he shouts.

People start uncrouching, and my cop pulls me up with a firm hand. "I'm going to need to ask you a few questions, young lady."

Awe, fuck.

As my stomach plummets, I look down at Mickey. He's still lying on the dance floor, his face lighting up with pinks and blues. Wannabe guard is hovering over him, motioning everyone to stand back.

"Is he going to be alright?" I ask my iron-fisted cop. I hope like hell he doesn't think I had anything to do with it.

"Yes. It's probably just a tranquilizer dart. He'll be back on his feet dazzling people with his magic fingers by tomorrow night. Follow me, please."

As I'm escorted to a high-top, I glance around for Presley and Loki. They're standing next to the couch where I left them. Well, Loki is standing. Presley is sitting with her head in her hands. She's either completely freaked out or about to puke.

"So, how do you know the victim?" my cop asks. He has his little black book out and his pen raised, waiting to document my story. I look at his badge, which says 'Murphy'. But, of course, he hasn't bothered to introduce himself.

"I just met him tonight. His name is Mickey."

Murphy raises his eyebrows like he thinks I'm lying. I ignore his accusing stare and wave at Loki.

"What are you doing?" Murphy glances at Loki, who waves back. "Do you know him?"

Duh.

"We came to the party together."

"Does he know the victim?"

"No."

Two paramedics arrive on the scene, and I watch them lift Mickey's limp body onto a stretcher. The poor guy. Was he in the wrong place at the wrong time, or was he the target of the idiot who darted him? Was I the target? Geezus. That's a disturbing thought. Clutch has the music turned back up, but it's low profile, enough to take the edge off.

"Why would someone tranquilize him?" I say, although I don't expect to get an answer.

"That's what we're trying to figure out. So, if you have any other information, I'd love to hear it."

I'm sure you would.

I rub my hip where his gun jabbed me. Was he trying to protect me, or could I get him on police brutality? "That's all I know."

He nods doubtfully as he taps his pen against the book. "What's your name? Can I see your ID?"

Shit.

I dig into my purse and pull out my wallet, flipping it open to my driver's license, which announces that I shouldn't be here. He whips out his flashlight and shines it on my plastic face. He's probably about fifty, so I'm not surprised he needs the extra light.

"Well, Miss Holiday. I see you're just shy of nineteen."

"Yes, sir," I say, because I'm no fool.

"Do you have a capable ride home?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is he that tall gentleman who looks like he would really like to go home?"

I glance at Loki. He's still standing in the same spot, stiff as a board, absently stroking Presley's back.

"No. Our ride is..." I gesture to the general chaos around us. "...out there, somewhere."

Murphy hands me my ID and I toss it in my purse. "You realize I could ruin your night for you, Miss Holiday. But, because I'm a nice guy, I'm going to offer you and your friends a ride home. I'm not even going to ask for their IDs despite the fact that the young lady with her head between her knees appears to be suffering from a severe case of overindulgence."

You have got to be kidding me. Is this really happening? Am I going to pull up in front of Paradise Place in a squad car on Friday freakin' night? "That's not really necessary. I'm sure our ride is capable."

Total lie. I have no idea if Trevor is an indulger.

Officer Murphy waits until he has my complete attention before he speaks. "Do you have a cell phone with the phone number of your ride?"

"Yes, sir."

"I want you to call them and make sure they know that Vegas Metro is taking you and your friends home."

And, just like that, my fabulous Friday plummets to the ground like a lead zeppelin.