David Handler - The Blood Red Indian Summer

“Wife?”

“I was going to say thumb. But if you want to talk dirty…”

“I don’t.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Positive. Move it along, mister.”

“He asked me if I thought he should tell Callie. I said that when the time was right to tell her, he’d know. And he would tell her. He’d want to because they’d be a serious, committed couple by then and he’d want her to know everything. I’m not sure whether that was sound, mature advice or just something I picked up from watching Gidget Goes Hawaiian. But it was the best I could do. Hell, I’m driving along with the guy in this shiny new truck and he drops this on me. Do you think I need a new truck?”

“She’ll never understand. She’ll forgive him- maybe. But never understand.”

Mitch glanced over at her as she strode along next to him, her smooth skin glowing in the pink sunset. “What would you have told him?”

“I have no idea. And you don’t need a new truck. You already have the world’s greatest truck.”

“It doesn’t have air conditioning.”

“Open a window.”

“It doesn’t have heat.”

“Wear a jacket.”

“It won’t go faster than fifty-five.”

“Good. You shouldn’t.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of what I thought.”

Des sipped her beer and said, “I thought I sensed something between June and Bonita this morning. The way she looked at him. And the way he didn’t look at her. I can’t believe she actually played the race card just to cover her skanky ass. She’s a thoroughly reprehensible person. And Justy’s no dreamboat either.”

“He used to beat up on June’s mom, according to June. It’s only a matter of time before he starts in on Bonita-if he hasn’t already.”

“Really nice bunch of people. It’s a heartwarming story.”

“Welcome to Dorset, where life is beautiful all of the time.”

“Do you believe June’s version of the story?”

“Which part?”

“The part where he woke up inside of another woman and didn’t know it. Because you’d know if you were making love to someone and it wasn’t me, wouldn’t you? I’d sure know if it wasn’t you.”

“Well, that’s not a fair comparison. You’ve grown accustomed to incredibly high standards in terms of technique, attention to detail, girth… Okay, ow, that hurt.”

“I’m serious, Mitch. Do you believe him?”

“No, I don’t. I believe he’s spinning the truth about what happened so that he can live with himself. ‘This is the West, sir. When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.’” On her blank stare, he explained, “That’s from The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, a very good picture John Ford made toward the end of his career. Lee Marvin slays in it.”

“Do you realize that sometimes I have no idea what you’re talking about?”

“But sometimes you do. How cool is that?”

“Justy and Bob Paffin persuaded me to pay a ‘courtesy’ call on our newest, blackest resident this morning.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s Da Beast really like?”

“There’s no short answer to that. He’s bright, self-aware and intuitive. He has a sense of humor. But he can go rage monster almost instantly-and then thirty seconds later be totally calm again.”

“Are we talking steroids here?”

“Real? I have no idea. I just know it’s hard to tell who Tyrone Grantham is from one minute to the next. Maybe that’s how Tyrone likes it. He dictates the flow by keeping the people around him off balance. He has an extended family staying there. Some very decent people. His younger brother, Rondell, has an MBA from Wharton. His wife, Jamella, is nobody’s fool. And her kid sister, Kinitra, has a set of pipes on her like you wouldn’t believe. The girl’s a major singing talent. But I ran a check on his cousin Clarence, who fancies himself a recording engineer, and it turns out he got kicked out of Clemson for stealing stereos from dorm rooms. Not only lost his basketball scholarship but got sentenced to a hundred hours of community service plus a year of probation. And the girls’ father, Calvin, has spent half of his adult life in lock-up down in Houston. You name it, Calvin’s done it-car theft, armed assault, pimping, dealing. It was the girls’ mother who raised them. She worked as a cashier at a Walmart. Got shot to death in the parking lot two years ago. The shooter was never apprehended. And the girls have been on their own ever since. When Jamella took up with the famous Tyrone Grantham, Calvin suddenly resurfaced. Tyrone’s letting him stay there with them, but he’s a punk, as the boys’ mother, Chantal, so eloquently put it. And she would know. Back home in South Central L.A. she was picked up a gazillion times for prostitution and drug possession.”

The sky was turning from pink to violet. The darkness came fast this late in the year.

“Stewart Plotka was out front trying to drum up publicity for his lawsuit,” Des went on as they started back toward Mitch’s cottage. “Just for the hell of it I phoned the Nassau County P.D. detective who investigated that Dave amp; Buster’s fracas. He told me they declined to pursue criminal charges against Tyrone because the waitresses and customers all backed up what Tyrone and Jamella said-which was that Plotka approached their table and started shouting and screaming at Tyrone. When Tyrone stood up, Plotka went into a tizzy and tripped over a chair. Plotka claims he broke his eyeglasses when he fell and suffered severe eye and hand injuries. But no one saw that happen. No ambulance was called to the scene. And Plotka’s ‘doctor’ lost his license to practice medicine in the state of New York five years ago. What he has is a license to practice chiropractic medicine in Nevada. Where I could get a license to practice. The Nassau P.D. detective thinks the man’s just looking for a payday. That lawyer of his, Andrea Halperin, is famous for squeezing go-away money out of celebrities.”

“You’re saying Plotka’s a creep who has no case and yet the NFL suspended Tyrone Grantham anyway. They were just looking for an excuse, weren’t they?”

Des nodded. “They’re tired of his act.”

“So am I. When I was growing up in New York City in the eighties, I had three huge sports heroes-Dwight Gooden, Darryl Strawberry and Lawrence Taylor. All three of them turned out to be drugged-out bums. I was utterly crushed. Never, ever got over it. Kids need heroes who they can count on. Not that professional athletes are heroes. But you have to be older before you can recognize who the real heroes in this world are.”

“Such as?…”

“My dad. He showed up every single day at Boys and Girls High to teach those kids algebra. Not a lot of them made it. But some of them did. And it was because he was there. And then he came home every night and was there for me. He never ditched my mom for a younger babe. He paid his bills on time. That’s my idea of a hero-my dad. Your dad, too, don’t you think?”

Her only response was taut silence.

“How is your dad?”

“Well, I almost blew his head off this morning.”

“Accidentally or on purpose?”

“Don’t even go there. He’d driving me nuts. He haunts my hallways all night long. He’s gloomy, listless…” She glanced at her watch. “At this very minute I guarantee you he’s sitting in my living room with his jacket on staring at a rerun of NCIS for about the fifteenth time.”

“Okay, I’ll grant you he’s no Mr. Sardonicus.”

“Mister who?”

“Wait, are you telling me you’ve never seen Mr. Sardonicus with Oscar Homolka? It’s a William Castle shlocko classic. I can’t believe you’ve never seen Mr. Sardonicus with Oscar Homolka. That settles it-this year’s Halloween viewing will be highlighted by a special midnight screening of Mr. Sardonicus with Oscar Homolka.”