Dead Irish
“It was four p.m., already a long day, and by far the hottest one of the year.He barely heard the “Who is it?”Frannie hugged him for a long time in the doorway. She was barefoot, wearing a white nightgown. She’d obviously been taking a nap. Her long red hair was a wreck, the skin around her eyes nearly black, her lips puffed like a wound.She led the way to the living room and left Hardy there. The first thing he did was open two windows to let in some air. It didn’t make much difference.He heard... Frannie somewhere behind him.The room was a friendly mixture of Goodwill and teak. A stereo and some small but, Hardy knew, excellent Blaupunkt speakers, two mismatched, upholstered chairs, a couch, and two bentwoods, on one of which Hardy sat.Hardwood floors reflected the late-afternoon sun onto clean painted walls. There were three framed works of art on the walls: one of Hockney’s “Pools,” a view of San Francisco from the Marin side of the Bay, and one of Goines’s Chez Panisse posters.MoreLess
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