Mandisa phoned at seven the next morning. I slapped myself across the face to wake up before I picked up the phone. Said she wanted to talk, that she had some new information. The only information I wanted was where to get an AK-47. I told her to call back in a couple of days. Suddenly that Walther felt like a poor excuse for a weapon.
Once I’d downed a couple cups of coffee, my urge to feel that AK in my hands receded a little bit. I phoned Mandisa back and asked her if she could come over to my place that afternoon. She surprised me and agreed. I hoped Red Eye had cleaned up all the glass off the kitchen counter.
Before I could ask him about the cleanup or getting an AK, he told me he wanted to do a barbecue. He thought it might make me feel better.
“Being a bodyguard isn’t just about security, homes,” he said. “It means keeping the boss’s spirits up.”
I hadn’t used my barbecue in months. Not many people grill steaks when they eat by themselves. While I drowned myself in more black coffee, Red Eye spent half an hour spraying oven cleaner on the bits of meat that were still stuck to the grid. Despite his determined efforts, flecks of black remained. I didn’t want to think about how much residue from that oven cleaner I’d be swallowing with my dinner.
Red Eye bought three huge T-bone steaks and four pork chops. He made up his own marinade: ketchup, Worcestershire, Mrs. Butterworth’s maple syrup and slices of those tiny green jalapenos—the extra hot ones.
“The hot will cook out,” he promised, “don’t worry, bro.”
Red Eye didn’t just buy meat. He felt the urge to be properly attired after he ran into a sale on aprons and chef’s hats at Target. His sea of tattoos clashed with the Charlie Brown cartoon on his white apron. The one size-fits-all chef’s hat didn’t encompass his size. It sat like a shrunken derby atop his shaved head.
While I paced the yard looking for suspicious movement in the bushes and listening for cars driving past, Red Eye preached about the power of water and charcoal lighter to control the fire level.
“Can’t just use any water,” he said. “It needs the right mineral balance.” He proudly set two quart bottles of Stream of the Gods next to the barbecue. Stream was the most expensive brand in the gourmet section at Safeway.
With the chops and steaks wallowing in the marinade on the kitchen counter, Red Eye focused on the fire. When the flames flared up too high from his pile of briquettes and newspaper, out came the Stream of the Gods. The water inevitably brought a cloud of smoke, prompting squirts of charcoal lighter to restore life to the fire. I just wanted it to be over. I hoped Mandisa wouldn’t show up in the middle of this barbecue foolishness. She wouldn’t be impressed. We were under attack and Red Eye was stressing over getting those briquettes a “perfect gray.”
“It’s all ready,” he finally told me. “Just needs one more squirt.”
As I came out the back door holding the bowls of the marinated steaks and chops, I watched the flame back up the trail into the can, then blow it up like a little bomb. Red Eye flew back like Tommy Hearns caught him with a haymaker meant for Marvin Hagler. He kept his feet for a moment, then staggered three steps backwards. The third step landed him in the pool.
For some reason I decided to jump into the pool to rescue Red Eye. The chef’s hat was floating in the deep end and I didn’t see his head above water. I went in feet first and by the time I looked around Red Eye was striding toward the stairs, Charlie Brown’s smile bobbing in and out of the water.
“That was a helluva bang,” he hollered. I’d never seen anyone laugh with singed eyebrows, beard, and arm hair. He started splashing me. As I jumped back to avoid the splash, slices of jalapeno floated to the surface in a puddle of red sauce. I’d forgotten to let go of the meat before I leaped into the pool.
Red Eye submerged himself, came up with a chop in his mouth and threw it onto the pool deck. Just as the meat plopped on the concrete, Mandisa arrived at the gate. She took one look and beat a retreat.
“I’ll come back later,” she said, rushing toward the front yard. I dragged myself out of the pool and sloshed after her, but I couldn’t get up any speed in soaking wet jeans. By the time I got to the front yard she was driving away in a yellow Chevy. I stood there for a few seconds and watched her car turn left and disappear around the corner. Then a gold Jaguar with tinted windows cruised past and turned left at the same corner. I couldn’t decide if Newman was tailing her or they were in this together.