David Handler - The Blood Red Indian Summer

Well, wasn’t it?

He found the hole easily enough but took a wrong turn somewhere in the woods on the other side and came out by Tyrone Grantham’s swimming pool instead of his driveway. The party was over. Everyone was gone-except for an enormous middle-aged black woman and chubby young black girl who were gathering up all of the plastic cups and paper plates and stuffing them into a trash barrel. The smell of perfume lingered in the air. Someone’s yellow bikini top was floating in the pool.

“What do you want?” the woman demanded, glowering at him. “You some kind of a reporter?”

“I was seeing Mr. Lash home. Just came back to get my truck. I’m a friend of the resident trooper. Are you Mrs. Grantham?”

She nodded her head. “Chantal. I know you from the TV, don’t I? You’re that movie critic with the funny eyebrows.”

“That’s me, all right. Except there’s nothing funny about my-”

“This here’s Monique.”

“Hello there, Monique.”

“Hi,” she responded distantly, her gaze fastened on the pavement.

“That bunch of no good leeches had no business here,” Chantal fumed as she tossed more trash in the barrel. “It was that old fool Calvin let ’em in. Hoping one of those girls would get so high she’d spend the night with him. I worked the streets, okay? I know what men are really like. Even you so-called respectable men. You’re all sick. And weak. Can’t control your evil impulses. We’re the strong ones. The good Lord knows that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” she barked at him. “My Tyrone’s a good boy. He tries to do the right thing. But he’s had to fend for himself and Rondell ever since he was a child. I wasn’t there for him then. Now I am. So you go home and leave us alone, hear? Just go home.”

She answered her cell phone on the first ring. Always did.

“Did I wake you up?”

“No, I just climbed into bed.”

“What’s the Deacon up to?” he asked, fetching a Bass Ale from his fridge. Quirt was nose down in the kibble bowl enjoying a late night happy meal.

“Watching a rerun of NCIS, what else?”

“Is he wearing his jacket in the house?”

“He is. I was thinking I might burn it when goes to bed-except I swear he never does. You get Winston home okay?”

“I did. Someone cut a hole in the fence between the two properties. That’s how he got in.”

“Did Winston do it?”

“He says not. I did find wire cutters in his toolbox, but my money’s on a tabloid scuzzball.”

“I’d believe that. I’ll tell the Granthams in the morning. Thanks for the heads up.”

“Da Beast was a lot nicer than I was expecting him to be. I kind of liked him, I must confess.”

“He can be very likeable. He can also change gears uber-fast.”

“So shall we talk menu for tomorrow night?”

“Serve whatever you want, Mitch. I won’t be eating a single bite.”

“That’s my girl. Have I told you recently how adorable you are?”

“I’m not feeling very adorable right now.”

“Beg to differ, thinny.”

“Sleep tight, doughboy.”

His stomach was rumbling. He’d never managed to eat any dinner. He cooked himself up those grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches he’d been starting to make and devoured both sandwiches while he trolled on his computer.

Sure enough, twenty-seven seconds of shaky video-phone footage of the heavyweight Clarence Bellows-Winston Lash bout was already up and streaming on a high-traffic celebrity gossip site, which was calling it a “rumble” between a member of Da Beast’s “crew” and “an unidentified, pajama-clad man.” Mitch couldn’t believe how far the goalposts of the news business had shifted. Editors used to wait until they had an actual story before they ran the visuals. Now the raw video was the story. By morning it would go viral, which did Tyrone Grantham no good. Then again, his cousin Clarence hadn’t done him any favors either.

Mitch washed up in the kitchen, but was still way too wired to sleep, so he opened another Bass and put on Anywhere, Anytime, Anyplace, a circa-1949 recording by John Lee Hooker and his Coast To Coast Blues Band. He powered up his monster stack, grabbed his sky blue Stratocaster and sat in on “Come Back Baby,” laying down his riffs behind John Lee’s low, seductive growl, bare toes wrapped around his wah-wah pedal as he reached for it, found it, felt it.

It was nearly three by the time Mitch climbed up to his sleeping loft and burrowed under the covers. He was asleep instantly. And swore his head had barely hit the pillow when his phone started ringing and ringing on the nightstand.

He groped for it, groaning. “Hello?…”

“Rise and shine, Boo-Boo! Everybody out of the sack!” His father sounded up as a pup. Always did. “Hey, I didn’t wake you, did I? You said you get up early.”

“I-I do, but…” He let out a huge yawn, blinking. “Pop, it’s still dark out. What time is it?”

“Five-thirty.”

“Are you getting ready to leave the city?”

“Nope. We’re here.”

“ Where here?”

“At the foot of your causeway. But we can’t get out to the island. There’s a barricade blocking our way. You have to hit a buzzer or something?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“So hit it already, will you?”

“Wait, you’re here?” Mitch’s brain was still not quite firing on all its cylinders. In fact, he thought the chances were good that he was actually still asleep. “What time did you leave the city?”

“We set the alarm for two-fifteen. Had our coffee and All-Bran, locked up your apartment good and snug and were out the door by three o’clock sharp. Are you going to raise this barricade or what?”

“Sure, sure. Right away…” Mitch staggered downstairs and hit the buzzer by the front door, his bleary eyes still swollen half-shut. He threw on a T-shirt and shorts and ran a hand through his mop of curls. Flicked on the porch light. Sure enough, they were pulling up in the driveway in a rented Ford Focus.

He went out into the muggy pre-dawn warmth and hugged and kissed them both. It had been nearly a year since they’d made it up from Vero Beach.

“Is Desiree here?” Chet demanded to know. “It’s fine by us if she is. You don’t have to hide her in a closet. We’re all grown ups.”

“She’s home with her dad. He’s recuperating from bypass surgery, remember? And I don’t have any closets.”

“What’d he say?” Chet was hard of hearing but refused to acknowledge it. Just talked really loud. Pretty soon everyone else was, too.

“He said he doesn’t have any closets,” Ruth told him.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Everyone has closets.”

“We can’t wait to meet her, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, when are we going to meet her, Boo-Boo?”

“Tonight. We’re all having dinner here. And… could you do me a huge favor and not call me Boo-Boo in front of Des? I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“But I’ve called you Boo-Boo your whole life.”

“I know this, Pop.”

“And Maisie never minded that I called you… ouch!” Chet yelped as Ruth’s elbow collided with his ribs. “Okay, son, if that’s how you want it.” His eyes fell on Mitch’s Studey. “Hey, your truck is sa-weet. What year is it?”

“A ’56.”

“Sa-weet. I haven’t seen one of those babies in years. Can we take it out for a spin? Come on, let’s take it out for a spin.”

“Pop, are you high on greenies or something?”

“He’s just excited,” explained Ruth. “We’re happy to see you.”

“Likewise. Come on in. I’ll make us some coffee. And when the sun comes up I can show you around the island. Then I’ll take you to your bed and breakfast. Sorry I can’t put you up here, but it’s real tiny, as you’ll see.”