Fort Myers, Florida
27 August
2102 Local
“Damn,
Florida.”
She
was so hot; she could feel the sweat trickle down the back of her legs as she
sat in front of the television. She
could feel the sweat on her face, in her eyes, on her back, chest, and
arms. Hell, she knew she was sweating
profusely, even from the back of her hands.
She could feel the heat, hear the buzz of the fans, wishing only that the
air conditioner hadn't died – again – leaving her and her daughter smack dab in
the middle of the sweltering heat.
Normally, this time of night saw
Jennifer Melynda Kelk, retire out to the patio behind her two bedroom condo,
with a cold drink in hand, and if available, her boyfriend in tow, to savor the
heat and smells of the late summer night in southwest Florida. About this time she was normally able to hear
the croaking of the frogs and the grunting of the far off alligators. It was her favorite time of night.
She loved the condo. It was a new development and she was able to
scrape together enough for the down payment, especially when the developer had
gone under in '08. Her alimony checks
covered the mortgage payment. Her job as
a customer service representative at a local bank got her the loan and was more
than enough to keep her and her daughter, Emily, quite comfortable. That is, when the air conditioner worked.
“Goddamn it!” She whispered, not wishing to wake her
sleeping daughter. She knew that she had
a night of sweating in the sheets of her bed ahead of her. When the hurricanes and tropical storms came
and knocked out power for a while, it was at least understandable. But this was the second time in a month that
the air had gone out. Last time it cost
a new compressor, this time, who knows?
She was glad of the extra warranty she had purchased, although Jenny
decided that the problem with the unit had better be serious to justify her
discomfort. She heard a knock at the
door.
She hauled her self up and off of
the couch. She looked through the
peephole and saw her boyfriend on the other side, fiddling with his cell
phone. She opened the door. “Good evening, babe!” Kyle Reynolds said with
a smile. He flipped his cell phone shut and kissed her quickly as he
stepped inside. “Damn hot in here! AC down again?”
“Very clever, Detective Reynolds,”
She said sarcastically, closing and locking the door behind her, “Do the police
know about your unnatural ability to deduce?”
“Ha – ha, very funny,” he said,
“Emily asleep?”
She moved to the kitchen, opened the
refrigerator, removed a bottle of Chenin Blanc, and proceeded to pour two
glasses. “She is,” she handed him a
glass. He took it, sipped, set the glass
on the granite counter top, and removed his jacket. “Don’t you get hot wearing
a jacket?” She said, looking at his
sweat stained shirt.
“Damn right,” he said. He unlimbered the paddle holstered Glock 19
from his waistband and gestured toward her with it, “but I wouldn't want anyone
to suspect I was carrying this,” he smiled and shrugged.
“I’m suspicious of anyone I see
wearing a jacket in this damned heat!”
She said. “How was your day?” Reynolds pulled the pistol from its
holster, locked the slide back, and returned it to its holster. He ejected the magazine and placed them into
a quick access lockbox above her refrigerator.
He had brought the lock-box over before he had brought his
toothbrush. He didn’t live with Jenny,
but when he spent the night he thought it would be a good idea to keep his
sidearm up and out of the way of curious little fingers. Throughout his five years as a detective, and
during his time as a Security Police Officer in the United States Air Force, he
had seen his more than his share of damage caused by curious fingers.
“Shall we?” She asked.
“Lead on,” said he.
He picked up his wine glass and out
to the balcony they went. It was a hot
and humid outside as it was inside. An
old friend of his had once described the feeling of Floridian nights as “living
inside someone’s lung”. Tonight Reynolds
could believe it. She sat in a large
green plastic Adirondack. She reached
into a small cigar box and pulled out her “vice”. She lit the ultra light cigarette with a
plastic lighter, and inhaled quite deeply.
He took one from the
package and lit it from the lighter.
Between them on the small patio table sat a small mason jar that they
used as an ashtray. The smoke burned his
throat. The less she smoked, the more
she liked it, occasionally. Gone were
the days of “Smokin’ Jenny”, as she used to be known in college. She now limited herself to one or two, in the
evening, never in front of Emily.
Kyle smoked even less. In college and the Air Force he had smoked
occasionally, but it became both inconvenient and expensive, as the military
and public opinion went against tobacco.
The Air Force, particularly didn't like its commissioned officers
smoking. One every now and then
certainly couldn't be that bad for you, he thought.
She sat there in the dark, with her
favorite man, her favorite wine, her favorite smoke. For a minute she let the confluence of his
proximity, the taste of the wine, the moist heat of the air and the buzz of the
tobacco wash over her. For a moment, she
closed her eyes, and forgot how much she wanted to kick the broken air
conditioner.
He looked at her, the faint smile,
the sheen of perspiration, the way her skin glowed from the soft light of her
table lamp on the other side of the sliding door. “You look yummy,” he whispered.
“Hold your horses, detective. It’s way too hot. Sorry,” she said, reaching for his hand. She squeezed it, feeling the stickiness of
their sweat. “Maybe after that jackass
fixes the air...”
He agreed with her, it was damned
hot. To hot to do much of anything,
except sit and sweat. He sipped his wine
and dragged on his cigarette. “How was
your day?” He asked her.
“Fine,” she said, settling deeper
into her chair. “More old people than
you can shake a stick at. All of them
had more money than they know what to do with.
I almost got in a wreck when some old coot pulled out in front of me.”
“Where?” he asked.
“Del Prado, right in front of the Denny’s.”
“Oh,” he said, knowing perfectly
well that being cut off by an absent minded senior citizen in Southwest Florida
was about as unexpected as a sunset in the evening. It happened, and it happened all the
time.
“Yours?” She asked.
“Huh,” he said, his mind remembering
the old woman he blared his horn at earlier in the day. She had simply stopped her car in the middle
of US 41. Apparently she was looking for
an address. He had called uniformed
patrolman and had him follow her just until she violated the traffic laws of
Lee County, Florida or greater Fort Myers.
He hoped she got a pretty good ticket and could imagine her indignation.
“Fine. People are still people and they still get
mad at each other and try to kill one another.
Every now and then someone is unlucky enough to succeed. Job security is a good thing,” He laughed.
“You got off of work at 8:30
tonight,” she said. “What time did you
go in?”
“Seven in the AM,” he said.
“You work too hard,” she said
refilling his glass. The pale yellow
liquid filled his glass, and he sipped again.
He wasn't the world biggest fan of white wine, but he drank it because
she liked it, and if she liked it, he liked it.
Their relationship was a lot like that.
No major conflict, aside from her complaints that he worked too
much. He spent roughly four of seven
nights in a week in her condo, he adored her daughter. Emily Krone liked “Uncle Kyle” a great
deal.
Kelk and Reynolds enjoyed a
relationship that was as comfortable as one could expect. There was no real pressure, she having been
married and divorced. He having never
been married, but married to his job, the two of them had recently broached the
subject of matrimony. He had brought it
up, and she didn't immediately say no.
So the possibility was there.
“I should be able to get a
promotion,” She said, lighting another cigarette.
“Great! Good for you!
That’s wonderful, especially in this lovely economy,” he said, “Vice
President?”
“Assistant Vice President,” She
smiled at him. A frog croaked in the
pond below them.
“New office?”
“With a window.”
“Nice! Company car?”
“We’re not as lucky as certain law
enforcement types I know of.”
“Have to chase the bad guys in
something, you know,” He chuckled.
“Lots of bad guys to chase?”
“The real bad guys don’t run –
that’s the scary part. A few, fewer
illegals than we used to have. They're
trying to make a living, just like anyone else.”
“Have you ever really had anyone
deported?”
He thought about it, “Nope. After they get arrested they might go to jail
for a while, but then we just turn ‘em out.
Unless they killed somebody, or stole some VIP’s car. We tell the Feds, they, like always, really
don't care unless someone in the news media calls them out on it. Fewer of them around, what with the lack of
jobs, it really doesn't justify the danger and expense for most of them
anymore. The ones that are still here
either have a purpose, really like what they're doing or have kids here.”
“I’m going in to take a shower,” he
said, rising from his chair, “been a long goddamned day.”
“That sounds like a good idea.
Go ahead,” she said, drawing deeply on her cigarette, smiling at him in the dim
light, “I’ll join you in a minute.”
