It was sleeting now, slowly changing to snow. Daisy pinched her woolen hood close to her chin.
She jumped as she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you. Larson would like you to join him.” It was the drummer from the band.
Daisy peeked out at him from under her hood. “OK,” she said. “Why not?”
She squinted through the snow and started toward a limo parked just in front of the club. The windshield was streaked with sleet and slush and she could not make out the figures in the car.
With one swipe of the wiper she thought she recognized a figure inside. A silver-haired man was talking to the driver, his pale skin sickly in the muted light of the back street. She stopped in her tracks.
“Not that one!” said the drummer, steering her away by the arm. “We are not ‘limo’ band.” He pointed to a dark van, scrawled with what looked like graffiti. “That’s us.”
He led her to the van and pulled the door open. A cloud of sweet smoke poured out into the night. Daisy swished the sleet from her crepe dress and climbed in.
“Hey, Gothic Girl,” said the lead guitarist, sucking on a pipeful of hash. “You have captured Larson’s heart. But you are a baby, aren’t you?” Smoke gushed from his mouth, and the drummer grabbed for the pipe.
In the very back of the van sat Larson, glassy-eyed. He patted the seat next to him. Daisy crawled back and sat next to him.
“Ah, but you are even more delicious close up. What’s your name?”
“Daisy Hart.”
“Heart! Yes, you are my heart, Gothic Girl.”
“Not that kind of—”
“Daisy? Like the flower?” said the bass guitarist from the seat in front of her. “That’s cool.”
“Want a toke, Daisy my Heart?” asked Larson. “We have some coke if you’d rather.”
“I’m good.”
“You’re American, right? What are you doing here?”
“I’m—well, it’s complicated.”
“Of course, of course,” said Larson, his leather jacket squeaking as he slid his arm across the leather upholstery above her. “I expect nothing less.”
“Hey, can you—tell me who is in that limousine?”
“In front of us?”
“Yeah. I thought I glimpsed someone I knew.”
The lead guitarist blew a lungful of smoke out in a coughing fit.
Everyone laughed.
“He’s just an old man,” said Larson. “He hangs out in that limo after gigs when we play here. Sometimes he gets girls to go in. Maybe they think it is us, that they are going to hang out with the band.”
“He never gets out of the car. But his flunkies do,” said the lead guitarist. “They bring him girls. Usually they are really wasted.”
Daisy looked out through the sleet to see Lubena walking with a man in his twenties, dressed in black leather. He gestured to the limo, and the door opened. Daisy could see the withered hand and a gold ring, and a flash of a silver-tipped cane.
Then she focused on the license plate: PP—586
“Shit!” she said. “That’s him!”
“What’s the matter, Goth Girl?”
“That guy tried to kidnap me! He’s fucking insane!” She scrambled out of the seat.
“Are you serious? That old man?”
“Let me out!”
The door flew open and Daisy bolted out. She pounded on the limo’s windows.
“Get out of there, Lubena!”
Lubena pressed her hand against the window, her fingers spread out against the glass. She was mouthing something, screaming. Her eyes were wide in terror.
The limo’s engine roared to life.
Daisy started kicking the door with her heavy boots. A second later Larson and the drummer jumped on the trunk, fists pounding the rear window. The bass guitarist threw himself across the windshield.
Daisy ran to the front of the car, pulled out her cell phone, and snapped a picture of the license plate. Then, with a flash of inspiration, she yanked at the metal, forcing the red cell phone between the license and the car’s grill.
“Let the girl out!” screamed Larson.
A hand reached out the driver’s window, holding a pistol. There was a sharp report, a single shot, and the bass player screamed, clutching his arm. He tumbled off the car as it lurched into reverse, knocking Daisy off her feet. Blood streaked the wet pavement.
Larson went sprawling as the limo sped forward, barely swerving to miss the injured bass player and Daisy.
“Are you all right?” she asked the wounded man. “Jesus, he shot you!”
The bass player moaned, clutching his arm.
“Alex is shot!” shouted the drummer. “Get an ambulance.”