shores of Lake Ontario in Western New York State.
The cheerful wording better described an invitation from hell that would occur ten days from now. With the anniversary of her beloved Rico’s death approaching, the last thing s he wanted was to relive wretched memories of Summerville, New York.
Never—Ever, again.
“Flora, where’s the shredder? Didn’t I tell you to leave it there?” She pointed at a spot to the right of the table.
“Ah, Senora , don’t you remember, you asked me to move it to your office? So you could get rid of your husband’s old business papers?”
Lola bit her lip. “You’re right. Gracias .”
Flora bobbed her head and hurried toward the kitchen.
Aromas of cinnamon and chocolate wafted in the air. Was chicken mole on tonight's menu? Lola’s stomach growled. She needed to get the salt water off her skin and hair before dinner. She grabbed her mug, stuffed the invitation into the pocket of her leopard cover up, and headed for the shower.
~*~
Packed with every self-serving merchant in Summerville, the community center room was so hot and the air so charged, it felt as if a thunderstorm would break at any moment. First dabbing at the sweat dripping into his eyes with a monogrammed hankie, then removing his expensive tailored suit jacket, Richard, aka Dickhead, Heade blathered on.
“And as you can see from this diagram, the band will be on the stage, facing the head table,” Chief of Police Heade paused in his Power Point presentation. “Get it? Head table?”
A few suck-ups snickered; one woman, who laughed like a chicken, clucked along with them.
Dick’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Ahh, I kill myself.”
Webster Bond covered his face with his hands and moaned. If he had to sit through one more of these reunion planning meetings he'd eat his sidearm. Thank God, the nightmare would be over in ten days.
“You got a problem, Dweebster?” Dickhead's whine had all the charm of a droning buzz saw.
Web leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, no, I love going through the same slide show over and over and over again, all for a frigging high school reunion. The only thing we’re missing, Chief, is the picture of you in your awesome 1985 mullet.”
Chicken woman commenced clucking and the snickering grew to roars of guffaws.
Heade’s cheeks reddened. “So, do you believe you’re too good for this committee, Dweebster?”
“It seems to me, the SPD has matters that should take a higher priority, like aliens slipping over the border from Canada.”
“Trafficking of illegals belongs to ICE, not SPD.”
“So as the Chief of SPD, that’s your official position?” Web tilted back, lifting the front feet of his chair off the floor. “Seems to me, we just got a BOLO for a delivery of Chinese packed in hidden compartments in cement freighters out of Toronto.”
As Heade’s face flushed a deeper shade of red, he strode to Web’s chair, reached out and gave it a yank. Web leaped to his feet just in time to avoid toppling to the floor. Under his breath, Heade murmured something for Web's ears only. “You'll pay for that, Bond.”
Web stared at him. On any day, Chief of Police Heade was a manipulative charmer, especially for the public. This display of teenage crapola went outside the box. What's going on here?
He flipped into cop mode, conducting an almost instantaneous visual assessment. Bloodshot eyes, dilated pupils and hand tremors. A runny nose?
Oh shit. This was worse than Web originally thought. He kept his hands at his sides, not moving a muscle. If he flinched, the former school yard bully—now town bully, would win. The room went silent, including chicken woman.
“I’m not one of your rookies,” he retorted, “scared of their own shadows. Go back to what you do best—blowing hot air.”
Dickhead's eyes bulged; a slow trickle of blood oozed from one nostril. Very smoothly, he lifted the silk handkerchief from his vest
The cheerful wording better described an invitation from hell that would occur ten days from now. With the anniversary of her beloved Rico’s death approaching, the last thing s he wanted was to relive wretched memories of Summerville, New York.
Never—Ever, again.
“Flora, where’s the shredder? Didn’t I tell you to leave it there?” She pointed at a spot to the right of the table.
“Ah, Senora , don’t you remember, you asked me to move it to your office? So you could get rid of your husband’s old business papers?”
Lola bit her lip. “You’re right. Gracias .”
Flora bobbed her head and hurried toward the kitchen.
Aromas of cinnamon and chocolate wafted in the air. Was chicken mole on tonight's menu? Lola’s stomach growled. She needed to get the salt water off her skin and hair before dinner. She grabbed her mug, stuffed the invitation into the pocket of her leopard cover up, and headed for the shower.
~*~
Packed with every self-serving merchant in Summerville, the community center room was so hot and the air so charged, it felt as if a thunderstorm would break at any moment. First dabbing at the sweat dripping into his eyes with a monogrammed hankie, then removing his expensive tailored suit jacket, Richard, aka Dickhead, Heade blathered on.
“And as you can see from this diagram, the band will be on the stage, facing the head table,” Chief of Police Heade paused in his Power Point presentation. “Get it? Head table?”
A few suck-ups snickered; one woman, who laughed like a chicken, clucked along with them.
Dick’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Ahh, I kill myself.”
Webster Bond covered his face with his hands and moaned. If he had to sit through one more of these reunion planning meetings he'd eat his sidearm. Thank God, the nightmare would be over in ten days.
“You got a problem, Dweebster?” Dickhead's whine had all the charm of a droning buzz saw.
Web leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, no, I love going through the same slide show over and over and over again, all for a frigging high school reunion. The only thing we’re missing, Chief, is the picture of you in your awesome 1985 mullet.”
Chicken woman commenced clucking and the snickering grew to roars of guffaws.
Heade’s cheeks reddened. “So, do you believe you’re too good for this committee, Dweebster?”
“It seems to me, the SPD has matters that should take a higher priority, like aliens slipping over the border from Canada.”
“Trafficking of illegals belongs to ICE, not SPD.”
“So as the Chief of SPD, that’s your official position?” Web tilted back, lifting the front feet of his chair off the floor. “Seems to me, we just got a BOLO for a delivery of Chinese packed in hidden compartments in cement freighters out of Toronto.”
As Heade’s face flushed a deeper shade of red, he strode to Web’s chair, reached out and gave it a yank. Web leaped to his feet just in time to avoid toppling to the floor. Under his breath, Heade murmured something for Web's ears only. “You'll pay for that, Bond.”
Web stared at him. On any day, Chief of Police Heade was a manipulative charmer, especially for the public. This display of teenage crapola went outside the box. What's going on here?
He flipped into cop mode, conducting an almost instantaneous visual assessment. Bloodshot eyes, dilated pupils and hand tremors. A runny nose?
Oh shit. This was worse than Web originally thought. He kept his hands at his sides, not moving a muscle. If he flinched, the former school yard bully—now town bully, would win. The room went silent, including chicken woman.
“I’m not one of your rookies,” he retorted, “scared of their own shadows. Go back to what you do best—blowing hot air.”
Dickhead's eyes bulged; a slow trickle of blood oozed from one nostril. Very smoothly, he lifted the silk handkerchief from his vest
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