“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.”
“Are you really, truly into this movie or do you just like saying the name Oscar Homolka?”
“Both,” he confessed. “Why is it that I can’t lie to you?”
“Because you know I’ll shoot you if you do.”
“Right, right. I knew there was a good reason.”
They took the narrow sandy path back toward his snug little antique cottage. As they neared the house, Quirt, Mitch’s lean outdoor hunter, darted across the garden and collided headfirst with Mitch’s shin. Just the cat’s way of telling Mitch he was hungry. Mitch let him inside and Quirt headed straight for the kibble bowl. Clemmie, who rarely ventured out, was taking a power nap in her easy chair.
The little house had exposed chestnut posts and beams, a stone fireplace and oak plank floors. It was basically just one big room-with windows that looked out at the water in three different directions. There was a kitchen and a bathroom. A sleeping loft that was up a steep, narrow staircase. He’d furnished the place with whatever he could find. The moth-eaten loveseat and easy chairs had been in his neighbor’s barn. The coffee table was an ancient rowboat with an old storm window over it. His desk a mahogany door that he’d dragged home from the dump and set atop sawhorses. Mitch’s sky blue Fender Stratocaster and monster stack of amps took up one corner of the living room. Books and DVDs were piled pretty much everywhere else.
He put some old Sam and Dave on the stereo and asked Des what she felt like having for dinner.
“Don’t bother making anything for me. I’m really not hungry.”
“Well, that’s just tough. You’re going to eat. I don’t like the way you’re losing weight again. You have almost no boobage.”
“Mitch, I never have any boobage.”
“And just take a look at your booty, will you?”
“Why, what’s wrong with my booty?”
“Not a thing-I just like looking at it,” he said, grinning at her. “Hey, I know, I could run over to McGee’s and get two chili cheeseburgers and a couple of orders of spiral fries. Also something for you.”
She shook her head at him. “Doughboy, you haven’t stuffed your pie hole this way in ages.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean you have powdered donut residue all over your T-shirt. And that grease around your fingernails has Utz potato chips written all over it.”
“That’ll teach me to fall for a trained investigator.”
“What is this?” she demanded. “Are you getting antsy about me meeting your folks?”
“Not at all. They’ll adore you. How could they not?”
“I just hope my father won’t be a total drag.”
“Don’t even worry about it. My dad can get anyone to lighten up. He’s amazing that way.” Mitch went in the kitchen and started poking around. “I have a loaf of day-old ciabbata and some stinky Hooligan cheese. What would you say to a grilled cheese and bacon sandwich with slices of my late-season tomatoes? There’s also a half-bottle of that amusing Cote-du-Rhone. Deal?”
“Deal,” she agreed. “For our starter course grab the wine and two glasses and I’ll meet you up in the sleeping loft. We can do some scientific research on whether we recognize each other in the dark. If you have any trouble I’ll be the one who’s naked under the covers.”
“Be right there,” he said eagerly, fetching two glasses from the cupboard.
For the record, Mitch had no trouble recognizing her in the dark.
Later on, his growling stomach insisted on being fed. Des was dozing contentedly next to him. It was the most relaxed she’d been since the Deacon moved in. Mitch slipped out of bed quietly and tiptoed down to the kitchen, where he heated up his Lodge cast iron skillet and laid some thick slices of bacon in it to cook.
When his phone rang he grabbed it on the first ring, hoping it didn’t wake her.
“Oh, Mitch, thank God you’re there!” It was Lila Joshua, the more fluttery of the two sisters. “I have been
