Free Angry Buddhist (9781609458867) by Seth Greenland Page B

ten. Astonished at her own audacity, Nadine remains on the floor as Hard emerges from the bathroom, a bloody towel now pressed to his neck, keeping a wary eye on his tormentors. Top volume shrieking pours from the dog. When Hard makes for the door, the animal bolts across the floor and leaps at him. Still holding the towel to his wounded neck, he kicks the Chihuahua away but this only further animates Diablo, who clamps his jaws on the man’s left ankle. It takes a well-placed kick to dislodge him and the Desert Hot Springs Police Chief wisely uses this gap in the action to slide through the door.
    There’s an advantage in stabbing a married guy, Nadine thinks. He doesn’t have much in the way of recourse.
    After Hard leaves, she lies down on her bed cradling Diablo and looks at the Taser she had surreptitiously liberated from his belt when he had gone to the bathroom after sex. Why had she stabbed him with a fork when she had had the Taser at her disposal? It certainly would have conveyed her feelings more forcefully. Jam it under his armpit and the man would have thought the Devil had stuck him with a pitchfork. Why did she always do things in half measures? In considering the efficacy of Tasers versus forks, she finds herself reflecting that perhaps she should stop dating for a while since it is obviously causing more stress than she had realized.
    As Nadine strokes Diablo’s head, she reflects on the threat she has made. What could possibly be gained by calling his wife? As a mostly rational person, she knew the answer: not much. Nonetheless, she is still irate at what she perceives to be the arrogant way in which she has been treated and deeply resents how powerless it makes her feel, how inconsequential. And that only makes her more irate. Although she has already stabbed him in the neck, she wants to hurt him in a more lasting way, a way that goes far beyond insulting his taste in poetry. And then she wants to go to Mexico with him, drink cocktails festooned with umbrellas, and at sunset have sex on the beach while fishermen unload their nets in the dimming distance. Nadine can hardly begin to understand herself. At least she had the foresight to purloin the Taser. It will probably come in handy.

CHAPTER EIGHT
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    T he hillside home of the Duke family is nestled in the Little Tuscany section on the northwest side of Palm Springs. In the long shadow of the rust-colored San Jacinto Mountains, the house is a perfectly restored exemplar of the mid-century modern style. Relatively modest, especially in contrast to nearby architectural showplaces once owned by such luminaries of yesteryear as Dinah Shore and Bob Hope, the wood post and beam L-shaped one story structure has a pleasing flow. The living room comprises one wing and is walled on two sides entirely in glass through which the garden, the pool and the mountains provide a magnificent panorama. The kitchen is at the fulcrum and the three bedrooms lie at the other, longer end of the house. Built in 1955, it is furnished in a style that quotes from the era, without replicating it. Randall had no interest in mid-century modernism and neither, initially, did Kendra. It was Maxon Brae, a member of the Palm Springs Architectural Conservancy, who prevailed on her to purchase this home when it came on the market. Maxon had informed Kendra that it would only help the family business if they had a house on the local preservationist tour. Insecure about her own non-musical aesthetic sense she signed on to Maxon’s vision. As for Randall, he would have been happy to buy a house on a golf course but acquiesced to his spouse and advisor.
    Kendra sits on a kitchen stool eating chocolate ice cream from a glass mug with the words
Gerald Ford Invitational Golf Tournament
embossed on it and trying to forget the reason the Palm Springs Academy had called earlier. She can’t figure out her daughter. The girl is unusually intelligent, a straight A student taking