Summer People
Chapter 1
From a dune near the shore, a telescopic sight cut through the heavy rain and fog. The six figures on the porch were clearly visible--three women to the right and three men to the left. Two clusters, six people at the opposite poles of the long, brightly lit porch.
The cross hairs wheeled along the porch from right to left, stopping at each figure, pausing for a long moment, and then moving on. The scope traveled back across the porch; the cross hairs centered on a woman standing at the far end of the porch. The woman turned and went into the cottage. The sight stopped at the two women seated at a table. They were older than the first, middle-aged. They pulled closer to one another as they talked, moving apart when the third woman rejoined them.
The telescopic sight moved back along the porch to the left, centering on the man with the thinning, blond hair--moving with him, waiting until he leaned forward away from a window pillar, waiting for him to turn sideways, waiting until the profile of his head and neck could be perfectly aligned in the cross hairs.
Randy Holden mixed drinks for his two friends, Robert Austin and Larry James. His wife made coffee for their wives.
“How do you get by the SEC when guys like Ivan Boesky got nailed to the wall?” Robert asked as Randy handed him a gin and tonic.
“Boesky lacked subtlety. He always wanted to make it and show it. He came from nothing. His old man owned a greasy spoon in Detroit before the tribe moved to West Bloomfield. As soon he started making the bucks, he flaunted it. It’s sort of a Jewish thing, isn’t it?”
“Now Randy,” interrupted Larry in a mocking tone, “Aren’t religious and ethnic slurs, particularly ones directed against a Cranbrook classmate, in bad taste, especially for old money like you? You must take pity on those not fortunate enough to be born Episcopalian, rich, and with impeccable taste.”
Just as Randy started to answer, a long flash of lightning raced across the horizon, vertical bolts crashed into the lake. The lights flickered and went out as the thunder rocked the old cottage. A few seconds later the lights came on again.
“See,” said Larry with a broad smile, “even the Gods don’t condone that kind of bigotry anymore.”
“Sarcastic bastard,” retorted Randy. “Besides, Ivan never graduated from Cranbrook. He went back to a public school, probably graduated from Mumford or Central. That’s where they all went. Anyway, I’ll be the Episcopalian Ivan, and I’ll have the good sense not to end up in a federal country club. What kind of Scotch do you want?” he asked Larry. “I’ve got Cutty and Black and White.”
Larry raised an eyebrow, “I thought you’d stock something a bit more exotic. You always insist on a single malt when you’re at my place.”
“What can I say, these are the high-end Scotches at the liquor store down the road. We’re in the provinces, remember. What are you going to have?” he asked again.
“I’ll have the Black and White; it’s probably the least likely of the two to burn a hole in my esophagus.”
“Good choice, I’ll have the same,” said Randy. “Soda, water, or neat?”
“Better make it a lot of soda.”
Randy turned his back to the other two men as they continued to banter back and forth. He pulled two glasses from the shelf, dropped three ice cubes in each, and half-filled the first glass with Scotch from a bottle on the bar. He pulled a second bottle from an obscure corner of the cabinet, taking care to position his body so his guests couldn’t see what he was doing, and half-filled the second glass. Turning the label to the back, he hid the bottle from view again. He topped the first glass with soda, placed a paper napkin around the bottom of the glass and served it to Larry. Then he added a splash of soda to his drink and rejoined the conversation.
As he lifted the glass to sip, the jalousie window to his right exploded. For an instant he had a slightly startled look then he collapsed backwards, head loose, body limp. The heavy, amber whiskey tumbler fell. Its bottom edge slammed into the thick, grass-mat flooring, bounced once, turned a perfect 360 as its contents emptied, rolled on its side, and finally came to rest against a lifeless hand.