David Handler - The Blood Red Indian Summer

Chet beamed at him. “We’re coming back. We’ve been saving the big news for tonight, what with this being a special occasion with special friends. We miss the city. We miss being alive. You know what Vero is? An outpost for a bunch of self-satisfied schnorrers who never did a goddamned thing for anybody else their whole lives. And all they do now is kvetch about their bunions and their lazy, ungrateful kids. We thought we’d be happy down there. We thought it was time to collect our pensions and take it easy. We were wrong. This whole retirement thing is a crock. If you’re not doing something then you’re not alive. Am I right, Ruthie?”

“Absolutely right,” she agreed.

“So that’s what these ‘appointments’ have been about?”

Chet nodded. “We’ve been apartment hunting. I don’t think we can swing Manhattan anymore. You’ve got to be some kind of hotshot film critic to do that. But we found a very nice two-bedroom in Jackson Heights yesterday.”

“I have a better idea,” Mitch said. “Why don’t you just stay in my place?”

“Nah. We don’t want to cramp your style.”

“But I’m out here most of the time. Besides, I don’t have any style.”

“We’ve also been talking to people,” Chet went on. “An old pal of mine who’s got pull in the superintendent’s office, the folks at the Teacher’s Union. We’re still sorting out our options. It’s no secret that the city’s hurting for money. But they still need substitutes. And they always need volunteers. If just one kid at Boys and Girls High wants to sit down after school with a math tutor then I’m going to be there for that kid. I don’t care whether they pay me or not. Same goes for Ruthie.” He smiled at her. “Buck, this little lady was school librarian at a middle school in Washington Heights. Latino kids, mostly. English was a second language for a lot of them. She didn’t just check books in and out. She taught hundreds of them how to read those books. Their teachers didn’t have time. Their parents didn’t know how. Ruthie stayed after school with them in that library for hours. Then she’d walk the girls home through the lousiest neighborhoods you ever saw. But no one ever messed with Mrs. Berger. They didn’t dare. There are hard-working people out there, true American success stories, who never would have made it if Ruthie hadn’t been there. And nothing has changed. Those kids still need us. Especially the boys. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”

“No, you don’t,” the Deacon said solemnly. “Too many of them are growing up in the street. No family structure or sense of belonging. So they end up in a gang and then we lose them.”

Mitch raised his wine glass to his folks. “Well, I think this is great.”

“Do you really?” Ruth asked, her eyes shining at him.

“Really. It’ll be great to have you back.”

Chet said, “Thanks. And if you feel like baking in the sun with a bunch of boring old people, the condo in Vero Beach is all yours. You, too, Buck. If you and a lady friend are ever looking to get away for a few days.”

The Deacon said nothing to that.

Chet didn’t leave it there. He couldn’t. He was obsessively nosy. Always had been. “Mind if I ask what happened between you and Desiree’s mother?”

“Dad, maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it,” Mitch cautioned over the sound of Des’s churning stomach.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” the Deacon said quietly. “She felt she wanted something else. Someone else.”

“And how long ago was this?”

“Three years ago.”

“Have you been dating?”

“Not really.”

“It was a yes or no question, Buck.”

“Then the answer is no.”

“You ought to. We’re not meant to be alone. I know a terrific guidance counselor at Boys and Girls High. Marcia’s a widow of color in her early fifties. Good-looking woman. I talked to her yesterday on the phone.”

“He’s had a crush on her for years,” Ruth said tartly.

“Does Sharon Gless know about this?” Mitch asked.

“Buck, you’re coming into the city and the four of us are having dinner, okay?”

“I’m still recuperating from my bypass surgery,” the Deacon said.

“I know, but you will recuperate. And you will come to dinner.”

“Go for it, Daddy,” Des said encouragingly.

The Deacon hesitated. “It’s nice of you to offer. I’m just not sure when that will be.”

“Sure, sure. I understand. But I also know this-before long you’ll be back on the job kicking tuchos and feeling like a rooster again. Trust me.”

Des stared across the table at Chet with a startled expression on her face. “I just realized something awesome…”

“Which is what?” Mitch asked her.

“How you became you.”

Chet let out a laugh. “Who, this freak? We’re nothing alike. All Mitch ever did was watch old movies on TV. He was a walking encyclopedia of film credits by the time he was twelve. Why, I’ll bet he can still tell you… okay, who was the set decorator on Casablanca ?”

“George James Hopkins,” Mitch answered.

“And the assistant director of… The Glass Bottom Boat?”

“Al Jennings. You’re lobbing me nothing but softballs, Pop.” Mitch munched on a handful of flavor-free soy nuts as the blood red sky turned to purple. Dusk was coming fast. “We’re losing our daylight. Would you care to move inside?”

“Maybe we’d better,” Des said. “Sorry it took us so long to get here. We had to make a stop at Justy Bond’s house.”

“Was this about that poor girl who we found?” Ruth asked her.

“Yes, it was.”

Inside the house, Mitch got busy turning on lamps while the others headed for the love seat and overstuffed chairs.

“Mitch told us that she’s pregnant,” Ruth said.

Des nodded. “Someone’s been sexually assaulting her-not that she’ll admit it.”

“They never do. They’re too afraid. Believe me, I had more than my share of them. Nice, studious little thirteen-year-olds with baby bumps out to here. It broke my heart.”

They settled around Mitch’s coffee table. Mitch filled everyone’s glasses. Clemmie checked out the Deacon’s lap and found it very accommodating. He stroked her gently.

“Why were you at Justy Bond’s place?” Mitch asked Des.

“Wanted to find out if June heard anything last night. The Calliope ’s well within earshot of Tyrone Grantham’s beach.”

Mitch grinned at the Deacon. “So you two are working this case together?”

“There is no case,” the Deacon responded, stone-faced.

“June heard a struggle at two, maybe three a.m.,” Des reported. “Someone, presumably Kinitra, splashing around in the water. And a man calling to her. He called her ‘girl.’ June thought he sounded black.”

“Do you have a suspect in mind?” Chet asked her.

Des glanced uncertainly over at Ruth. “Are you sure this is what you want to be talking about?”

“Absolutely. I want to know who did that to her.”

Des took a small sip of her wine. “Tyrone’s wife, Jamella, is pretty much convinced that it was Tyrone.”

“Clarence is right there with her,” Mitch said. “And you can put Rondell on the list, too. He showed up here this afternoon blind drunk. I had to drive him home. Which reminds me-I have a message for you from Chantal. She said to tell you that today was laundry day.”

Des frowned at him. “Laundry day?”

“Laundry day.”

“And I’m supposed to know what that means?”

“She wanted me to tell you. She was real intent about it.”

Des glanced over at her father. “Maybe she found the rest of Kinitra’s clothing.”

“Will that help you build your case?” Mitch asked.