Death Is a Blonde

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Manatee City’s torrid dusty street lay in view of my office window. A few cars and clattering farmer’s trucks made a crawling stream of traffic or were angled in to the curb. The early afternoon Florida sun beat down with a vengeance. A few housewives had braved the heat to shop. I looked over the scene, but I was thinking of something else.

Wearing the pith helmet, lightweight pants and shirt that were the uniform of the Florida postman, Hank Rogers came out of Collins dress shop and turned in Si Harkin’ feed store, his bulging mail bag looking heavy and hot. On down the street, a farmer and a lawyer met and stopped to talk a moment on City Hall steps. In the palm-studded park across from City Hall, kids were playing shrieking games, several old men were dozing on the benches, as if the blistering sun were only mildly warm to them.

Then I saw her come out of the Bijou. She was wearing a flowered print dress that looked cool and clung to her. She stood as if blinking against the blinding sunlight after the darkness of the theatre. She pushed her hand up through her clouds of blonde hair, and turned and said something to the girl in the box office. I glanced at the marquee of the Bijou. A mushy love story was playing.

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