Shepard Krausse’s cottage was as ancient as the other Old Florida bungalows in Minokee, but unlike his elderly neighbors, Shep had not been living there since the Eisenhower administration. Shepard’s flowerbeds were well tended and blooming wildly because he paid good money to minions he never saw. He grew no vegetables as Martha Cleary did, and even if he had grown them, he would have happily shared them with the local brown rabbits, no rifle required. He didn’t have any particular political agenda regarding firearms; they just weren’t for him.
Shep’s running companion, Dave, did have strong opinions about the NRA and gun control, but nobody cared. Dave was a dog, for Pete’s sake.
Shep banged through the back door, into his home’s cozy kitchen. He wriggled out of his sweat-soaked tee shirt and dumped it into the washing machine just inside the door. Dave followed him in, sat down next to the washer, and looked up expectantly. Shep removed Dave’s bandanna and added it to the dirty laundry.
Shep removed two water bottles from the fridge and poured the contents of one into Dave’s dish. Uncapping the second bottle, Shep raised it in Dave’s direction: “Cheers, Dave.” Dave lapped at his bowl while Shep guzzled his bottle dry. Then Shep refilled both bottles at the sink and returned them to the fridge.
“Ready for a shower?” he said to Dave.
“Whff,” replied Dave, using his indoor voice.
“Well, let’s go, then,” said Shepard and turned to precede Dave down the hallway to the bedroom and bath. Shep removed his Marlins cap, and a white-blond ponytail slid from beneath it, rippling down the center of his back. He did not take off his sunglasses.
As they passed the living room, Dave whirled to face the sofa. His ears snapped back against his skull, black lips curled, fangs protruded, and a deep, threatening rumble vibrated from his throat. Shep was beside the dog instantly.
“Who are you?” Shepard asked.
“Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Krausse. And call off your dog, please,” a calm, gravelly voice came from the stranger slouched into the deep sofa cushions.
Shep placed one hand on Dave’s back. Dave stopped growling but neither retreated nor hid his fangs. “I’m not alarmed,” Shep said, “but I am curious. What are you doing in my house? Did my mother send you?”
“Cute little town, Minokee,” said the man casually. “People really don’t lock their doors. You might want to rethink that. And, no, I haven’t had the pleasure of doing business with the lovely and impressive Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse. I’m here on behalf of a, uh, concerned citizen. I have a message for you.”
The huge dog might have been cast from bronze; he was still as death and just as scary.
Shep spoke lazily, but his body had shaken off the fatigue of his morning run in favor of all muscles tensed in high alert. “I don’t believe I’ve done anything to, uh, ‘concern’ the citizenry. And I have a machine that takes messages. My number’s in the book, Mr....”
The man hauled himself from the depths of the couch and stood. Coins jingled as the man’s fingers fidgeted in his pocket. In the heat and humidity, the man’s suit jacket smelled like a wet llama. Shep thought the air conditioner in the man’s car must be broken.
“I didn’t phone, Mr. Krausse, because you might not have listened to your messages. My client wants to be certain you hear and understand his concerns.”
“Then tell me what they are, and get out.”
The man presented his message in two crisp sentences, then said his farewells and backed out the front door, watching Dave all the while. Shepard kept silent, his restraining palm resting in the raised fur on Dave’s back. The whole encounter had lasted less than ninety seconds.
Shep and Dave stood motionless until they heard a car crank to life and move off down the street. Shep then moved to the front door and locked the deadbolt. Only then did he respond to the stranger’s two sentences.
“Like hell I will,” was his whispered vow to the departed man—and to himself.