Redhanded Read Online Free PDF Page B

he never shows, the side that makes serious promises. I lie awake at night sometimes playing the scenes in my mind, how it will be when Dad stops being Mr. Wonderful and Mom settles back with us.
    â€œMy God, I thought I would die,” said Dad when we were alone.
    We leaned on the piano. I could make out my hazy reflection in the finish.
    I ran my hand along the wood, just for the touch, the thrill, and gave it a gentle rap with one knuckle. A note answered my thump, a deep, sea dark intonation. Above the keyboard was displayed C. Bechstein , in faded golden letters. Way over to the right glowed the names Kohler & Chase .
    My dad had not looked so happy in months. He teaches music at Laney College, one course, on appreciating music, and the class has a waiting list three semesters ahead. He used to have a radio show on KDFC, midnight to dawn, “The Masters Revealed,” and even when he got phased out by computerized programming, local symphonies asked him to give a short pre-performance chat. When Dad says Mozart wrote the world’s finest merry-go-round music, even the Mozart fanatics chuckle.
    A knock at the door, and like a hasty afterthought one of the men carried the piano bench in one hand. He set it into place, thanking Dad again, adding, “Enjoy,” as though the piano was something at a restaurant, the chef’s special of the day.
    Dad sat and played a power chord, a full-volume glissando.
    â€œHow about that?” he said.
    â€œTerrific.”
    â€œIt’s a seventy-year-old piano.” He sighed. “I’ll have her tuned.” He played a few notes of Chopin, his fingers tentative, like someone testing hot water.
    Dad knows very little about boxing, although he has a napkin from the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas autographed by Muhammad Ali. He keeps it in the bottom dresser drawer, sealed in plastic. When I asked him to sign the waiver months ago, and told him I liked sparring, he had sighed and shaken his head. “You’ve never heard of dementia pugilistica? It comes from getting hit.”
    But I had praised Loquesto, raved about the gym, and said it was giving me a shot at the Olympics.
    This last word got Dad’s full attention. He kept a list of places he had lectured, Stanford, UCLA, and saw life as the process of building a résumé. With Dad, his own list of solo performances was more important than a bank account. I could see him gazing at me with a quiet pride in recent weeks, probably thinking, “My son, the Olympic contender.”
    Dad tested out the piano, trying to find things wrong with it. But enjoying it, too, improvising chords with a gentle touch, as though he had to sneak up on contentment or it would slip away. I stayed in the kitchen playing with Henry, the yellow parakeet. I wondered what Chad, this guy I had never met, would make of the way we lived.
    The three-year-old bird did all the perky pet bird tricks, nibbled my fingernail, said its one phrase over and over, “How you doing?” It was a tiny, muzzy imitation of my father.
    Henry hopped along the wooden perch, a span about as big around as a pencil. Henry was like a pretend bird, too cute, too happy, chirping and sparring with the little mirror hung inside his cage, the one he was sure held a very real pineapple yellow parakeet.
    Henry mock-fought with the Mirror Henry, and I recognized that this was one of the training routines I followed myself, shadowboxing in the gym mirror, feinting and faking my own reflection.
    Except my own image wouldn’t hurt me.
    Stacy Martell would.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Mr. Gartner had already given us a good-natured caution.
    He hurried through the place just as I was pretending I was going to skim a salad plate over to Danielle’s outstretched hand. Mr. Gartner was a heavy man with a likable, worn face.
    It was the next day, and I could not be serious, looking forward to seeing my mom. Mr. Gartner clapped his hands, a sound you could barely