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Cointreau. The piercing boozy scent of orange melded with the tart perfume of crushed berries, making both my mouth and my eyes water. “Now,” he repeated, reaching with trembling hands. I gave it to him, then slid a drawer open. “Fork? Or spoon?” “It doesn’t matter.” He looked ready to slop into it with his fingers. I gave him a spoon. He rolled a few feet back and gobbled the trifle. Between swallows, he groaned and gurgled. I glanced over at Clark, who seemed unfazed by this behavior. In fact, he gave me a thumbs-up. So, I returned to the task of putting things away. I had to tug at the Philco’s heavy ornamental latch (which brought to mind the hardware on a casket) and soon had the beast filled. Its condenser hummed in earnest. Edison was now banging his spoon on the sides of the plastic container as he scraped at the last of the trifle. I asked if he needed anything else from me, but he shook his head without looking up from his scavenging. I stepped around the wheelchair, took my folder from the dining table, and told Clark I was leaving. He followed me toward the front of the house. When I stepped outside, he went with me and gently closed the door behind us. We stood together on the landscaped walkway, protected by the jutting cantilever of the roof. It rained heavily now—straight down, with no wind to drive it—like a translucent curtain blurring the gray afternoon. Raindrops danced wildly on the windshield of the polished Bentley. In the hushed racket of the pelting water, the world was still. “It’s … exhausting,” said Clark, his words no louder than a whisper as he gazed into the courtyard. “Edison?” Nodding, Clark turned to me. “Ten years ago, I knew what I was getting into, and I was sure I could deal with the age difference. He’s always been pampered and fussy—that was part of his charm. But now, Jesus. It gets worse by the month, like he’s regressing into childhood. You’ve seen the pink fluff; that’s been going on awhile. As of last week, about the only other thing he’s willing to eat is canned spaghetti, like a kid.” I’d noticed the SpaghettiOs while unpacking in the kitchen. Clark said, “What’s next—diapers?” “Maybe.” He was quiet for a moment, then laughed. Stepping near, he clasped my hand with both of his. “You’ve been super, Dante. Really helpful. Thank you.” I grinned. “Anything else, just let me know.”
I could hear him breathing. I could almost hear his thoughts. Was he open to a fleeting kiss? Or did he want something less innocent— something more animal and lusty? He moved closer still, brushing against me and lolling his head back to fix me in his stare. His dark almond-shaped eyes appeared black in the dusky shadows that hugged us. I could hear him breathing. I could almost hear his thoughts. Was he open to a fleeting kiss? Or did he want something less innocent—something more animal and lusty? When his lips parted, he broke the spell. “Can you fix this weather?” I backed off a few inches. “It’ll dry up. We never get much, but they say we need it.” “Yeah,” he agreed coyly, “we need it.” Which left me unsure if this was small talk—or foreplay. Either way, the time was right for a quick exit. I turned to leave but paused. “Enjoy your Sunny Junket.” Clark rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. They make you say that.” With a wink, I sprinted off toward my car. Excerpted from “VIP Check-In” by Michael Craft, copyright 2021 Michael Craft, originally published in Palm Springs Noir, edited by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, used with permission of the author and Akashic Books.