Blood Red Riding Hood

Blood Red Ridding Hood

         The rain beat down on the pavement reminding me of French Fries dropped in a deep fryer at the local greasy spoon. It was the kind of day to curl up under a warm blanket with a hot cup-o-Joe, flip on the TV and spend some time with  Humphrey Bogart. That's when trouble walked in.
         She was a gorgeous dame. She had eyes that made you say “Yes.” to any request and legs that went all the way to Pittsburgh. Since I was her daughter, I loved genetics.
         “Darling, I would like you to take these goodies to your grandmother's house.” I obeyed with the minimum required teenage grumbling.
         “And you better wear your red cape and Hood. The weather is nasty out there.”
         I threw on my little red riding hood and cape and shuffled out the door into the mean streets of the naked city. This city could use some clothing since the cold wind was penetrating you to the bone like like being shot by a Tommy gun. This city looked like it had taken it on the chin; it had gone too many rounds in a boxing match.
         Deep down, though, I felt this city had a puncher's chance if it could get up off the canvas. It was full of good hard working people. It just needed to see to it that none of these thieves and underworld  crumb bums hit her when she was down. That's where I came in; or would come in when I was an adult. I was still only a sixteen year old girl, still wet behind the ears, especially in this rain.
         “Hey little girl... Where are you going?” I heard behind me.
         I turned around and saw a “wolf” sheltering under an awning. He was dressed in pretty fancy clothing, fancier than someone like him should be able to afford. He had a gold watch on a chain, and a look in his eye that said it was dinner time.
         I played it coy. “I'm going to Grandma's house.”
         He sneered hungrily, “Maybe I should go with you. It isn't safe for a dame out alone.”
         “Who says I'm alone?” I answered mysteriously.
         It was a bluff, but it worked. He disappeared back into the shadows of the awning like a ghost in a cheep dime store novel. Somehow, the little voice inside me that all good crime deceives have told me I would be meeting Mr. Wolf again.
         Grandma's house was an old workingman's dwelling; nothing real fancy and could use a new coat of paint. It was a functional dwelling meant to keep the wolf from the door, so to speak. It was located across the street and one block down from the factory my grandfather worked all his life; when times were better and factory owners more loyal to their employees. Grandma still lived in the house, while Grandpa had passed on years ago.
         I had a key to the back door, so I approached the house through the back yard from the alley behind the house. Had I gone through the front door off the street, I would have seen the lock was jimmied.
         I set the basket of goodies on the kitchen table.  “Grandma... hello... It's me, Red.”    Red was my nickname due to my carrot top and freckles.
         “In here, darling.” I heard from the bedroom.
         I walked in.
         “Please don't turn on the lights, dear. They are too bright and will give me a headache.” I heard.
         I peered into the darkness. Trouble was in the air, and I could sense it; like a skunk having a bad day.
         “Grandma, what big eyes you got.”
         “All the better to see you with.” It was not Grandma.
         “Grandma, what big ears you got.” Whoever it was did have big ears, like two mountains wearing raccoon fur coats.
         “All the better to hear you with my dear.”
         “And Grandma, what big teeth you got.”
         “ALL THE BETTER TO EAT YOU WITH!”          
         It was  the wolf, from under the awning. He leaped at me from the bed. I quickly pulled  my best friend out from under my cape. My friend was short, had a snub nose, and thirty- eight calibers of justice. His bark was loud, but his bite was worse. Mr. Lupine learned a valuable lesson that day; never bring a wolf to a gun fight. Too bad for him he didn't live long enough to benefit from his new found wisdom.
         The police arrived shortly after I phoned in the shooting. Grandma had been knocked out and stuffed into a closet. She was alive, but would be taking aspirin for a long while. The corps was heaped on the bedroom floor.
         The Inspector was heading the crime scene. He was a grumpy copper; built like a bowling ball and just as hard. He was an incessant chain smoker, always having a lit cigar that he waved around like a tennis racket when he talked.
         “Somehow, when I received a call to leave my cozy chair and my Bogart movie , I knew you had to be because of you.” The Inspector grumped, “Now I have to trudge out into this rain and make an arrest.”
         “It was self defense, flat foot!” I yelled. “Any near-sighted zombie can see that. Go get yourself some brains!”
         “I don't mean you! Don't get your red riding hood in a twist! I mean the author!”
         “What for?” I asked.
         “For impersonating Raymond Chandler without a license.”