Off the Chart by James W. Hall Page B

supply.
    While Lawton tussled with the puppy, Thorn got back up and went over to the shade of the gumbo-limbo. He opened a can of yellow paint, stirred it till it was oily thick, then began to spread it on the new bench.
    As the first coat of paint dried, Thorn lit the charcoal in the grill and went back upstairs to marinate the fillet of a dolphin that he and Lawton had caught the day before out on the edge of the Gulf Stream. He set a pan of brown rice to boil on the stove and sliced up a fresh avocado, a portobello mushroom, and a meaty tomato, fresh produce Alexandra had selected last weekend at the farmer’s stall in the Key Largo flea market.
    Thorn drew the cork on a bottle of wine she’d brought down from Miami and poured himself an inch in a squat highball glass. It was her favorite wine, a lush cabernet from Oregon. They’d been indulging themselves these last few months. Good wines, fresh fish, chocolates for dessert. A diet far richer than either of them was used to. He supposed it was the flush of love that gave them such indulgent appetites, as if their senses had become so inflamed from the constant sight and touch and smell of each other’s flesh that only the most luscious foods could compete.
    When he was finished with the preparations he walked onto the porch. The sky was a dreary gray. Only a seam of red still burned along the horizon. Lawton was out by the dock, trying to teach the dog to sit. The puppy had no attention span and barked in protest each time Lawton set his rump back down in the grass and commanded him to stay put.
    As Thorn was settling the mahimahi steaks and portobello ontothe grill, Alex pulled in the gravel drive and parked her glossy blue Honda behind his rusty VW. Thorn pushed the steaks to the edge away from the fire. He walked over and met her at the car.
    â€œHe’s got a dog,” Thorn said.
    Alexandra looked past him into the yard. “I see that.”
    â€œIt just came wandering out of the woods and he adopted it.”
    â€œAnd you said he could keep it?”
    â€œI said we’d wait till you got home and talk about it then.”
    â€œSo I get to be the bad guy.”
    â€œI’ll do it. If that’s what you decide.”
    Thorn leaned in and gave her a kiss on the lips, which after a couple of seconds warmed to something more than a hello.
    The tart scent of her long day’s work in Miami clung to her clothes and flesh. She averaged a half-dozen crime scenes on a typical shift, shooting several rolls of film on each one, using her video camera on the larger scenes. From what Thorn gathered, it was hardly glamorous, rarely more than routine. Women beaten to death by boyfriends, teenage boys shot down in their first drug deal, geriatric suicides, babies fatally shaken by mothers trying to keep the little brats quiet. Mainly Alexandra moved through small dismal rooms with peeling paint and furniture abandoned by long-departed occupants, one sprawling body after another, usually discarded hypodermics, Baggies of crack somewhere nearby. In the years she’d been doing it, Alexandra had cataloged so much death and misery, made such a study of cruelty’s stark poses, it was a wonder the heavy shadows of her work didn’t mute her laughter or dim her nearly ceaseless smile.
    Finally she drew out of the embrace and pressed a hand to his chest to hold him at bay, a not-now-but-definitely-later smile in her eyes.
    â€œSo about this dog.”
    â€œWell, I tried to stay neutral because I thought it was your call.”
    â€œBecause he’s my dad.”
    â€œI didn’t think it was my place to decide.”
    â€œMeanwhile, look at him.”
    Lawton was lying in the grass near the dock, flat on his back, handslaced behind his head, with the Lab’s snout propped on Lawton’s chest.
    â€œA dog is a long-term commitment,” she said. “You ready for that?”
    She turned her head slowly and fixed her