For Early Morning Fun - Add Cold Water, Some Darkness, And A Dog That Thinks He's A Honey Badger...
Somewhere On The New England Coast
The right dog adds order to your life. I believe that. Tango is short with a suspect lineage of this and that, and he's not a drooler, which is best for the house and my truck. Three years ago, I bailed him out of "Dog Jail." He's heard all my stories and is still my only non-judgemental, non-drooling friend. Our friendship has nothing to do with dog treats. I like him and his go-getter attitude about life.
It's cold, with steady wind coming off the waves at zero four thirty. I'm sipping black, lifers juice from a holiday-themed paper cup from that donut chain that's on every corner up here. The nice donut woman with ten thousand dollars worth of ink asked.
"Hi, Allston. How's that sweet pup today?" she asked as she tossed him a donut hole.
I didn't have time to fight Tango for the treat, so she gave me one.
"He's ready to take on the world, and so am I. Thanks for the treats."
My name is Thomas Allston. Three years ago, I left Norfolk, Virginia, feeling like I got kicked hard in the doo-dads a few times. I got railroaded out of the Police Department for what was determined to be a "bad shoot," and then my wife left me for another cop with "a bigger pension." He used to be my boss.
Now I have a truck, a short dog, Eve, and a well-placed double-wide where I can smell the ocean. My business, dealing with bad guys, is growing, so I can afford those luxuries and designer dog foods.
As the year ends, when I count my successes, I'm grateful that I didn't get shot once this year and that all my dental procedures were just cleanings. There are still a couple more weeks for the scorecard to change, but I will remain my usual cheerful, jolly self.
I am killing this start-over thing by always looking forward.
However, I'm trendy on the East Coast, with high-powered people in Norfolk, Washington D.C., and New York who want me dead.
They look into the past and grumble about me, still breathing air while I try to move forward.
I'm watching Tango living his best life on the shore by chasing gulls, diving into the cold, dark water, and digging in the sand. Is he part honey badger? "He just doesn't care" about deep water and what lies beneath it.
I whistled, and he came running with a piece of driftwood in his mouth that was twice his length. You have to love ambition!
I notice two things while walking up my driveway across the street from the seawall. The lights in the house and the deck are on, and a brand-new Jeep is next to my truck.
Tango drops his stick on the deck, and I touch my waist to feel my Glock as I enter the door. There is a lot of light, and the fresh smells of coffee, blueberry muffins, and Eve in the hot shower are in the house.
Sitting at the table is a beautiful young woman holding a cup of Eve's Best. A laptop with a Beatles sticker is on the table next to her. She looks up from her phone and says,
"I'm sorry to bother you so early, Mr. Allston."
"My name is Sophie Tanner."
"Chief Ron Strier said I should speak with you immediately."
"Are you THE Sophie Tanner?" I asked.
"Yes, I am."
"Nice to meet you, Sophie, and I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you". She looked weary with condolences, which had been going on for two and a half weeks.
Everyone in the United States now knows who Sophie Tanner is. She's the eighteen-year-old freshman who expertly double-tapped the heavily armed man who killed her parents during her Thanksgiving break from college.
The publicity and focus on her were enormous when the rumors about who she shot started circulating. If those rumors are true, she'll be guest-hosting Saturday Night Live very soon. Sophie's very, very lucky to be alive.
With my condolences, I poured myself a cup and sat down.
The rumors about the intruder, Sophie's Father, and why his death happened are a subject that is being pondered in the world's capitals. I have heard a few things, and I'm hoping Chief Ron Strier, the shitty bowler who owes me a beer, will enlighten me before I get involved.
Sophie started to speak, and her eyes never left the computer on my kitchen table the whole time. I listened intently and watched Sophie. She delivered a story in a manner that revealed a young woman wise beyond her eighteen years and deeply hurt that her parents are now gone from her life.
Three hours later, I knew this was huge; Sophie was in danger, and now so was I.