Read Online The Blood Red Indian Summer by David Handler - Free Book Online

in Glen Cove over the summer. Now he’s staying out in the pool house.”
    “Pleased to meet you, miss,” said Calvin, who was in his late forties or early fifties. Hard to tell exactly because he dyed his hair an inky black. And wore a half-jar of pomade in it. He was a bit of a peacock. The sports shirt and slacks he had on were loud and louder. His cowboy boots were snakeskin. He was not very tall. And he was for sure not very fit. His gut hung way out over the waistband. He fetched himself a can of Bud from the fridge, popped it open and took a long drink, smacking his lips. “You get my smokes, Chantal?”
    “Get your own damned smokes,” she responded, her face tightening.
    “Chantal, why you all of the time got to be busting on me?”
    “Because you’re no good freeloading trash. Don’t do nothing all day but sit around drinking beer and watching porn.”
    Calvin shook his head at her. “Can’t we just get along?”
    “I don’t get along with punks.”
    “I’m no punk. I’m a grown man with two grown daughters.”
    “You’re still a punk.” Chantal turned her attention back to Des. “I hope you’ll watch out for my Tyrone. The people don’t like him, you know.”
    “Which people?” Des asked her.
    “I worry about him day and night. Pray to the good Lord that no harm will come to him.”
    Des glanced at Tyrone. “Have there been any incidents or threats I should know about?”
    “Not a thing,” Rondell interjected. “We’re fine.”
    “Moms is just being Moms,” Tyrone agreed. “Pay no attention.”
    “No, pay attention! I ain’t no crazy person. I know what I know.” Chantal reached over and clutched Des by the wrist. She had a powerful grip. “I have nightmares every night. Keep dreaming that something awful’s about to happen.”
    “Lighten up, Moms,” Tyrone said. “You’re freaking everybody out.”
    “Do you keep any weapons in your home?” Des asked him.
    “I have a Glock 19 for my personal protection. It’s the preferred pistol of the NYPD. I’ve got a permit for it.”
    “In Connecticut?”
    His face dropped. “New York. Why, is that a problem?”
    “Now that you’ve established your residency here you’ll want to swing by Dorset Town Hall and apply for a local pistol permit. Once you get that you can apply for one from the state—if you want to be in complete compliance, I mean.”
    “Oh, he does,” Rondell assured her. “Absolutely.”
    “Are there any other weapons around?”
    “No, ma’am,” said Clarence, who would not go down in history as one of the world’s great liars.
    Chantal still had not let go of Des’s wrist. Des’s fingers were getting numb. “ Promise me you’ll watch out for my boy!”
    “There won’t be any trouble, Mrs. Grantham. Not if I have anything to say about it.” Des smiled at her reassuringly. “And it just so happens that I do.”

C HAPTER 4
    B OND’S A UTO M ALL, THE state’s highest volume General Motors dealership—“ Just ask Justy! ”—was a mammoth cluster of airplane hangar-sized showrooms surrounded by acres and acres of sleek, shiny new cars and trucks. Mitch felt like a member of the Joad family when he pulled in there in his old Studey. Everywhere he looked rows of digital-age rides were gleaming in the Indian Summer sun. American rides, Japanese, German, Swedish—you could find pretty much anything at Bond’s Auto Mall.
    Except for customers. Mitch didn’t see a living soul anywhere.
    His cell phone rang as he was parking.
    “Hey, hey, Boo Boo!” a familiar voice hollered in his ear. “I tried you at home. You weren’t there.”
    “Yeah, I’m out running errands, Pop. What’s going on?”
    “Wanted to let you know we’re all set to head out there tomorrow. I’m picking up our rental car this afternoon.”
    “Why don’t you just take the train out? I can pick you up at the station and drive you to your bed and breakfast.”
    “Nah, we like to come and go as we please. Do you mind