Dova got to the jail by 10am. He parked the truck as close to the doors as he could. Then he took a deep breath, mentally bracing himself. Quit being such a sissy. He'll probably be lounging around seeing how much he can intimidate the officers just by looking at them. Bored and annoyed that you're late, nothing more than that. He irrationally wished he'd brought Milo with him. Of course, that would be just about the most irresponsible thing he could have done, but he didn't want to go in there alone.
God hates a coward. And with that thought he resolutely got out of the truck, locked it, and headed for the building. Halfway there, he hurried back to make sure he'd really locked the truck. He had. Rolling his eyes, Dova entered the station.
"Hi. Dova Perone. I'm here to get Law Alston."
The neat, smartly dressed receptionist heaved some sort of huge book up onto the shiny desk and began slowly paging through it, searching for news on Law. Dova thought she looked a little ridiculous. They couldn't possibly have that many prisoners here. It was strictly a drunk tank and holding area kind of place. That friggin' thing was thicker than his phone book. Not to mention the perfectly good computer, humming quietly a few inches away.
Finally she looked up and said, with a polite little smile, "Mr. Alston was released at 9am this morning."
Dova silently counted to ten before saying slowly, "Yes. I'm here to get him. Would you please have someone bring him out?"
"He's gone, sir. He left at 9am this morning."
Shit. "Are you sure? He was supposed to wait for me. You're sure he left?"
"Says so right here."
Oh, this was bad. Law was wandering around somewhere in New Orleans, on edge and in a bad mood. This had trouble written all over it.
"Did he say where he was going?"
"No, sir."
Dova left without another word, feeling confused and worried and angry at those idiots at the so-called police station. It didn't take a genius to see that Law wasn't quite right. If somebody said they were coming to get someone like that, you didn't just let him go by himself because the person was a little late. Not if you had half a brain, you didn't.
Suddenly he stopped. It had occurred to him Law might still be here, sitting on one of the benches around the brick walls and waiting. And here he was, about to drive away! He began walking around the building, barely resisting the impulse to call for him. That was how you looked for a lost dog or cat, and if Law heard him doing that he might leave out of pique.
He made three circuits of the building before admitting to himself that Law wasn't going to materialize from behind a tree, impatient to leave. Walking back to the truck, he tried to decide where to search first. Law might have simply gone home. Or he might be at the bar they went to most often. Or he might have gone to look for his truck. Dova considered that the worst of the possibilities. The guy he'd punched yesterday probably wouldn't get off so lightly if Law ran into him again today.
He offered up a silent prayer, believing there must be some kind of being that would hear it in a place like New Orleans. Then he steered the truck out into the traffic and headed for home.
He actually found Law a lot sooner than he'd dared hope. He was stopped at a light and tapping his fingers nervously on the wheel when the passenger side door opened. Dova nearly jumped out of his skin. His foot knocked into the gas pedal. The truck, whose engine Law maintained almost obsessively, leapt forward. Eyes wide in horror, Dova sped through the intersection. Horns blared and Dova and all his ancestors were reviled in English, French, and other less identifiable languages. He saw a truck bearing down on him and spun the wheel, shutting his eyes tightly. Somehow he got past it, and when he opened his eyes he was through the intersection. He pulled over and carefully turned off the engine before slumping dazedly against the wheel.
He sat there and wondered what the hell had happened and what he was going to tell the cops and whether he was going to have a license this time tomorrow. And then the damn door was opening again and someone was climbing in and it sounded like they were having some kind of fit. He slowly glanced over that direction. Law was pulling the door shut and then leaning back against the faded upholstery, laughing so hard he was gasping for breath. Dova had never seen him like this before, and he stared openly. Every time Law seemed to be getting himself under control, he would glance at Dova's pale, bloodless face and dissolve into further gales of laughter.
Dova tore his eyes away from this bizarre sight and glanced nervously over his shoulder to make sure there wasn't a twelve car pile-up back there. Then, with exquisite care that seemed to give Law further cause for merriment, he got the truck back onto the road. At least Law didn't seem upset. He threw his still laughing passenger a hostile look and turned on the radio. Finding a country station, he cranked the volume.
"Alright, alright, I give!" Law said, throwing up his hands.
Dova ignored him and slapped his hand when he reached for the volume. "Stop laughing."
Law managed to stop, and this time Dova let him turn the radio down. "Do you have any concept at all of what you just did? I could have been killed! The truck could have been destroyed! I'm probably going to lose my license!"
"Sorry, boss. Who'd've thought you'd be so jumpy?"
Dova sighed and decided that was probably about the best show of remorse he could hope for. "Glad to see you're in such high spirits. I hope they gave you breakfast, because we're not stopping. Gotta start saving to pay off that ticket that's gonna show up in the mail tomorrow."