Free Saving Room for Dessert by K. C. Constantine Page B

his bony chest, and thrust his chin upward.
    Rayford slid the shovel past Scavelli’s feet and turned around in time to see Matt Hlebec attempting to park his maroon Chevy
     Beretta in the space between the MU and Scavelli’s multicolored Ford pickup. There wasn’t enough room so Rayford hurried to
     his MU waving to Hlebec and indicating to him that he was going to move. Just as he got in, he saw Scavelli coming down the
     porch steps with his blow-dryer pointed at Hlebec.
    Oh shit, here we go with the blow-dryer again, Rayford thought, backing up and out into the street so Hlebec could park and
     then getting back out to be ready to intervene as soon as these two started in on one another.
    Hlebec came out of his Chevy yelling and gesturing first at Rayford and then at Scavelli. “Well good, I don’t have to call
     you guys, you’re already here, now you can see what I’m talkin’ about—”
    Rayford couldn’t help noticing that as soon as Hlebec spoke, his dog came alive inside his house, jumping up on a wing chair
     in the living room, shoving aside the curtains with his snout, and barking, then bounding away. In a moment he was back on
     the chair, his paws on one wing, barking again, and then bounding away again.
    “Just go in your house, sir, please?” Rayford said, watching the dog pushing the curtains around with its snout.
    “My radar gun is new and improved. Not only measures speed, now it measures noise. When he talks he’s louder than a chain
     saw—”
    “Oh shut the hell up!”
    “I’m not the one with the big mouth, that’s you. I’m not the one with the dog runs loose all over my yard, craps in my yard—in
     violation of the city ordinance.”
    “My dog’s in the house all day, he never runs loose, how many times you think I have to tell him before it finally sinks in,
     huh? I walk my dog on a leash, my wife walks the dog on a leash, you been seein’ us do that for ten years, you maniac—”
    “Mr. Hlebec, sir, just go inside, please?”
    “This is a public street, I’m comin’ home from work, I’m allowed to walk into my house without bein’ hassled by this asshole—”
    “Sir? How many times have we been through this? Go inside, sir. Please!”
    “Oh yeah, with the hunky, yeah, please this, sir that—what do the Italians get, huh?
I’m orderin’ you
—that’s what we get! The coloreds give us orders! But the hunky gets pleeeeeease, please please please, pretty please, oh
     yeah!!
    “Mr. Scavelli, go inside, please, I don’t want a repeat of yesterday, sir. Please? Go inside, sir.”
    “According to the prophecy, I’m on my property, I’m allowed to be right here, right where I am.”
    “Yes sir, according to
your
prophecy, that’s true. But according to
my
prophecy, you’re not allowed to stand out here and instigate a fight, verbal or otherwise, so go inside please.”
    “Coloreds don’t have no prophecy. All you got is jungle music. All you people know how to do is scratch records, you don’t
     even know how to play ’em.” Scavelli tried to imitate a rapper scratching an LP record on a turntable while huffing and grunting
     and jiggling from side to side.
    The man looked so ridiculous Rayford had to turn his face away to keep from laughing.
    “I can’t tell you how happy I am you’re here to listen to this yourself.”
    “Heard it all before, Mr. Hlebec, you know that—”
    “No no, uh-uh, what I mean is you’re hearin’ him right from the start, not from when you get here after my wife calls you—”
    “Been respondin’ to these addresses, sir, for six years now. I’ve taken Mr. Scavelli to Mental Health three times myself,
     and you’ve testified at all three of his hearings, Mr. Hlebec, let’s not forget the facts, okay? So now whyn’t you go inside,
     sir, please?”
    “’Cause my wife’s comin’ home, should’ve been here already, I don’t know what’s keepin’ her, but I don’t want him harassin’
     her. He starts in on