Scorpion by Ken Douglas

park were on, keeping the night alive, and safe. A young couple was jogging along the Savannah, followed by a pair of frolicking German shepherd puppies. Off to her right a man was selling hot dogs and lemonade. Boys were playing cricket in the park. Lovers were strolling, holding hands. A young Rasta man was sitting, playing the guitar, his case open at his side, and every now and then a passerby would drop some coins into it.
    It was a typical Friday night at the Savannah. Cool tropical breezes fanned a myriad assortment of trees after a hot and humid day. People were bustling, the night was alive. The sounds of the Rasta’s deep voice drifted across to her. She started to lose herself in his song of love and love lost, when her reverie was interrupted by the black Mercedes rolling up the circular drive.
    She looked at the watch again. An hour-and-fifty-five minutes till her father bustled in the front door. The ambassador was always punctual, something that was close to impossible in Trinidad, but it was his punctuality that unnerved the Trinidadian political and social set and gave him his edge. The world, even Trinidad, marched to his drummer. He’d even taught the prime minister a thing or two about being on time.
    The Mercedes stopped in front of the porch. She silently watched as Kevin exited the car. He closed the door with a soft push, barely enough to latch it, and even that slight movement made his biceps ripple. He looked over at her and smiled, then he moved toward the back of the car, running his hands lovingly along the top as he made his way. The car was only two weeks old.
    “ I brought a case of that Venezuelan rum your father likes so much,” he said, opening the trunk.
    “ He’ll be home soon.” She flicked the long blonde hair from her face. “What took you?”
    “ We got in late. I’d still be at the airport sweating customs, but I whisked right through with Chandee and the prime minister.” He looked at his watch. “We have plenty of time,” he said, echoing her earlier thought.
    “ How did it go?” she asked.
    “ Good as gold, picked it up on the stop over in Caracas. Carried it in my shoulder bag the whole way, no problem.”
    “ You have a sample?” she said, backing through the doorway.
    “ Of course.”
    She turned and he followed her into the house.
    “ You want me to set this in the kitchen?” he asked. He was holding the case of rum as if it was feather light. He had a good body, the result of six days a week in the gym at Starlight Plaza.
    “ Sure.” She led him through high-ceilinged rooms, first through the entryway, then a sitting room, then the formal dining room.
    “ The table, is it new?” he asked of a massive oak table surrounded by nine chairs, four on each side and one at the head.
    “ Yes,” she said, without turning around.
    “ Nothing but the best for old Warren,” he said.
    “ That’s right.” She pushed a swinging door aside and stepped into the modern kitchen. Her father loved the old house, but he’d had the kitchen completely redone. Cobalt blue tiled floor and counters, stainless steel range and oven that would be at home in the best of the world’s restaurants. She spent a lot of time in here with him, cooking, talking, laughing. The kitchen was his unofficial office, and on a small breakfast table sat his laptop and numerous papers.
    “ He’s still working on that book? I thought he’d given it up,” Kevin said.
    “ Still at it,” she said.
    “ Nobody will ever print it,” he said.
    “ I’ll get it printed. I still have a lot of clout in the publishing industry.”
    “ Even so, it’ll never sell. Nobody cares about a race of people that died out two hundred years ago.”
    “ They’re not all dead, but that’s not the point. It’ll sell because it’s good. People will want to know their story, how they lived, what they believed, because through them we learn more about ourselves. This book is so well written it would make