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"… another hot boiling summer!" Gillen Redd had left the radio on in his little apartment. "Crack the heat with a Crisp-Cone!" He had also left the blinds open. No, he didn't. As he got closer, he saw how some of the supporting strings had finally snapped. The invading light of the noon sun made the living room stuffy. Parts of his body still ached from where the bullets struck him.
"Great," he muttered to himself as he shut the door. He could fix the damn thing, but he didn't have the energy. Gillen wasn't an old man, but he felt like one ever since Richard D'Barimont had Andrea killed.
The ice cream ad seemed to go on for hours. "Filled with creamy caramel and chocolate on the outside! Beat the heat with this delicious treat!"
He took a seat at the table, its wooden surface paled by years of sitting in the sun, one boiling summer after the other. He sat staring at his TV screen. It was off, and the batteries of the remote had died.
The black screen offered more peace when it was off; there was nothing to see, nothing to know on the news that he didn't know already. Nothing to shock him. No one to control him. He'd seen what's under the rug and over the hedge.
Thirty minutes in his stare at his darkened reflection on the screen, a knock came at the door. He glanced at his gun, a snub-nosed revolver he bought from Frankie. The weapon was still half-concealed under a couch cushion. He went over to it and hid it more where it was, pulling the pillow a few inches.
"Mr. Redd?" said some kid from behind the door. "You in?"
It wasn't just some kid; it was Cranston D'Barimont. He came by at the end of every month. Why does it have to be him? Gillen thought as he went to the door.
Gillen opened the door. "What?" he said so abruptly the boy jumped.
Young Cran was only fourteen, but that didn't stop him from risking his life with his idiot cousins in a robbery. There were many jewelry stores in the city of Orinda, but if you're smart, you don't mess with Robert Hill's gems; you didn't mess with Robert Hill at all. But Cran didn't know. Richard tried to keep him away from the filth, sending him to the schools up north, where it was all green grass and red wine. Richard's wife loved that. Yet he sends his son all the way here to deliver money. So much for keeping him clean. What kind of family are they? This some kind of life lesson for him?
"Mr. Redd," the Cran mumbled, looking down at his toes. The kid handed over the envelope. "It's all there."
He always said stuff like that, Gillen reflected. It's all there, Cran said today. 'Same amount as always, he said last month. Dad's money is all there, he said the month before that.
This passive income was never a perk of being on the no-harm list. Does that bastard Richard truly have an ounce of remorse? It wasn't like him to do stuff like this. At least, not these days. Gillen grimaced at the envelope. Money won't bring Andrea back.
"You know what," said Gillen, trying to shut the door, "I don't want it."
"Wait," said Cran, through the crack, "why not? I mean …"
Gillen scratched the back of his neck. He reopened the door, chuckling at a thought. "It'd make more sense if you'd been keeping these payments."
Cran twisted his face, his confusion plain. "Oh, I would never," he said, chuckling nervously.
"You should. You saved your dad's life that night."
"I don't get it, Mr. Redd." Cran looked around uselessly as if his dad or his men were there to guide him. "Should I come back later? Or … "
"You got classes today?"
"Nope, it's Saturday, Mr. Redd. Oh, and it's summer vacation, yeah, that too."
"Someone out there waiting for you? You get drivin' here?"
"Nah. I rode my bike."
Gillen gave a wry smile. "There's something I have to tell you." He backed up to let the kid in. "You got the time?"
Cran smiled. "Yeah," he said, "sure." When the kid entered the room, he tried hard to show the heat did not bother him.
"If you want some water, help yourself," said Gillen, "There should be a bottle in the fridge." When Cran muttered in acknowledgment, Gillen took a seat at the table. "There's Crisp-Cones in the freezer, too."
Cran took a sip of water then opened the freezer. "Ummm … Mr. Redd, there's only one."
"Ah, just take it," Gillen said, waving a lazy hand.
Cran took the seat across from Gillen, the vanilla ice cream melting out of the cracked chocolate shell.
"Do you know … " Gillen paused for a moment. Cran gave him his full attention. "Do you remember that movie The Red Rose Falls First? "
"Hah," uttered Cran, taking a bite off his cone, "my parents loved that movie. It's kinda dumb. I don't like romance movies."
"I hated that movie," said Gillen, smiling sadly, "like, really hated it. But my girlfriend loved it. We had some dumb argument over it. Somehow it brought us together." Gillen dug in his pockets for a lighter. "I know what your dad had done with her."
Cran looked uncomfortable. "I'm sorry about … you know. My dad didn't want it. No one wanted it. He—"
Gillen raised a hand and shook his head. "No, no. I understand. I knew what she was, knew who she was with."
Cran kept on going with his defense. "My brothers wouldn't stop talking about it. She just wouldn't leave it alone. Dad said if she only kept quiet about the whole thing—"
"You don't have to explain anything, Cran." Gillen rolled up a sleeve, showing the kid his tattoo. "Trust me, I know how these things go."
Cran sighed. "Things are all fucked up, Mr. Redd." Cran noticed some caramel had dropped on the unvacuumed carpet. "Shit, I'm sorry. Some of it spilled."
"It'll come off, don't worry about it, kid." Gillen leaned back in his chair. "Where was I? Oh yeah … so that night when you and your cousins hit Hill's …"
"It was a stupid idea," said Cran, "Eric's still in the hospital. One of the Hills almost blasted his brains out. I heard he might not wake up."
"He was supposed to be the driver in the whole thing, right?" Asked Gillen.
"Yeah. I took the damn wheel. My uncle used to let me drive all the time when I stayed down south, even though I'm too young."
Gillen chortled. "A buggy in the desert feels different from an '87 Staggford Swift in the streets, doesn't it?"
"Yeah, it does." Cran swallowed spit and shuddered. "It was different with Mitchell bleeding from his leg in the back and being chased by the Hills. I didn't think they'd follow us."
"Robert Hill's boys don't call the cops, kid," Gillen said, not unkindly. He pulled out and lit a cigarette. "The Hills don't give a fuck."
"Yeah," repeated Cran, "they don't."
"Didn't think they'd follow you back home?" Gillen blew a puff of smoke.
"My dad has armed guards. That's all I thought about, y'know."
"He did," Gillen agreed, "more than I thought when I came by."
Cran had a question he really needed to ask by the look of him. After a pause, he said, "Why were you going to my father's mansion, Mr. Redd?"
"I had been free that night," Gillen looked out the window as a flock of birds raced by. "It would have been me and Andrea's fifth year together. We usually had dinner, snuggled up at home, and watched The Red Rose afterward." Gillen gave Cran a sullen look. "I heard your dad was celebrating his campaign's success that night, too."
"He went to Sylvester's with mom," commented Cran, "I paid off ol' Ian, our butler, and snuck out."
Gillen nodded and went on. "You know my pain … no, maybe you don't. I hope you never will." Gillen looked Cran in the eye. "I was going to kill your dad as soon as he got home."
Cran didn't show surprise. Many people wanted Richard D'Barimont dead, to be sure; the kid has probably never met one of them in person, however.
Gillen pointed at the cushions. "Under that blue one is the gun I'd used. Go get it and bring it here." Cran got up awkwardly and went to the couch. He found it easily, holding it carefully as if it were a newborn. "Two of the six had been fired. One caught your dad in the shoulder. The other two hits he took were from the Hills. Lucky for your dad, we hit nothing vital or crippling."
Cran spoke up. He asked a question that he no doubt already knew the answer to: "What about your second bullet?"
Gillen shaped his hand into a gun, pressing his middle and pointer finger to one side of his head. "Jack-Joel Hill. A kid no younger than you. But you couldn't fire yourself, could you?"
Cran shook his head. "We went to middle school together … pulled pranks on Miss Winehouse … I didn't know if he'd actually shoot."
We'll never know, Gillen thought, thinking about the dead teen. There was a moment of silence between the two.
"It's funny," Gillen finally said, "your dad still doesn't know I shot him. If you hadn't come by and crashed into the gate," Gillen pointed at the revolver, "all six of those bullets would be in your dad. I wouldn't have given a fuck back then. I made my peace. If his guards gunned me down, then that was how it would go." Gillen put out his cigarette. "That peace still stands."
Cran looked at him with exhausted eyes. "What do you mean by that, Mr. Redd?"
"As long as I'm living," said Gillen, "I can't let the same be for your dad. I'll never forgive him for taking Andrea from me."
Cran looked at the revolver in his hands. "Mr. Redd …"522Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmw56Fp2Av1
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"I'm giving you this chance. Even if the cops were in here and saw you do it, you can and will get away with it. You're dad's won. He's the king of this city, and in a couple of years, this country maybe. He's a smart and powerful man. You and your family are on a no-harm list of their own. And me? I've done nothing but lose. With Andrea, that didn't matter, and she didn't care. She was worth more than a million cities and never asked for anything. Now, she's cold and at the bottom of Bell's Bay waiting for me." Gillen shrugged. "But I could go for a swim, Cran. It's all right. A nice, long cold plunge to escape this heat and all the boiling summers to come."
"You saved me, Mr. Redd," muttered Cran, "I can't do it. I won't."
"Your dad will never be safe."
Cran ejected the bullets from the revolver and pocketed them. "I'll take this away from you then," he said as he slid the gun in his waistband.
"I'll buy another and more bullets."
"My dad's friends will stop you from getting them."
"I'll ask your dad's enemies then."
Cran frowned. Having nothing to say, he threw the envelope of money on the couch and made for the door.
"You stay out of trouble, no more robberies or dangerous shit, all right?" Gillen called out. Cran stopped and turned his head. "You stay out of trouble," Gillen lectured further. "You're a good kid." Cran nodded stiffly. "And whatever happens," said Gillen, "you stay that way."
Cran closed the door on his way out. And his father entered.
"I'm happy to be here, I love being your guest, Ellis." The radio, though buzzy, he could still recognize the voice of an old friend. "… it's funny you ask me that, but I think I was just lucky during those dark times …" An old friend who he suffered war with. "… my beautiful wife, and I don't even know where I'd be without her!" An old friend who took his love from him but kept his own.
"Sometimes, Ellis, sometimes …" Richard D'Barimont said after hearing a far too long joke told by Ellis, the show host, "sometimes all you have to do is the right thing."
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