Local Hero

passing. The second millennium, he thought with a smile. He’d been born too soon. Though he didn’t think he could blame his parents for having him a hundred years too early.
    Nothing came. No solutions, no inspiration. Mitch opened his eyes again and stared at the blank white paper. With an editor like Rich Skinner, he couldn’t afford to claim artistic temperament. Famine or plague would barely get you by. Disgusted, Mitch reached for another peanut.
    What he needed was a change of scene, a distraction. His life was becoming too settled, too ordinary and, despite the temporary block, too easy. He needed challenge. Pitching the shells, he rose to pace.
    He had a long, limber body made solid by the hours he spent each week with weights. As a boy he’d been preposterously skinny, though he’d always eaten like a horse. He hadn’t minded the teasing too much until he’d discovered girls. Then, with the quiet determination he’d been born with, Mitch had changed what could be changed. It had taken him a couple of years and a lot of sweat to build himself, but he had. He still didn’t take his body for granted and exercised it as regularly as he did his mind.
    His office was littered with books, all read and reread. He was tempted to pull one out now and bury himself in it. But he was on deadline. The big brown mutt on the floor rolled over on his stomach and watched.
    Mitch had named him Taz, after the Tasmanian Devil from the old Warner Brothers cartoons, but Taz was hardly a whirlwind of energy. He yawned now and rubbed his back lazily on the rug. He liked Mitch. Mitch never expected him to do anything that he didn’t care to, and hardly ever complained about dog hair on the furniture or an occasional forage into the trash. Mitch had a nice voice, too, low and patient. Taz liked it best when Mitch sat on the floor with him and stroked his heavy brown fur, talking out one of his ideas. Taz could look up into the lean face as if he understood every word.
    Taz liked Mitch’s face, too. It was kind and strong, and the mouth rarely firmed into a disapproving line. His eyes were pale and dreamy. Mitch’s wide, strong hands knew the right places to scratch. Taz was a very contented dog. He yawned and went back to sleep.
    When the knock came to the door, the dog stirred enough to thump his tail and make a series of low noises in his throat.
    “No, I’m not expecting anyone. You?” Mitch responded. “I’ll go see.” He stepped on peanut shells in his bare feet and swore, but didn’t bother to stoop and pick them up. There was a pile of newspapers to be skirted around and a bag of clothes that hadn’t made it to the laundry. Taz had left one of his bones on the Aubusson. Mitch simply kicked it into a corner before he opened the door.
    “Pizza delivery.”
    A scrawny kid of about eighteen was holding a box that smelled like heaven. Mitch took one long, avaricious sniff. “I didn’t order any.”
    “This 406?”
    “Yeah, but I didn’t order any pizza.” He sniffed again. “Wish I had.”
    “Wallace?”
    “Dempsey.”
    “Shoot.”
    Wallace, Mitch thought as the kid shifted from foot to foot. Wallace was taking over the Henley apartment, 604. He rubbed a hand over his chin and considered. If Wallace was that leggy brunette he’d seen hauling in boxes that morning, it might be worth investigating.
    “I know the Wallaces,” he said, and pulled crumpled bills out of his pocket. “I’ll take it on up to them.”
    “I don’t know. I shouldn’t—”
    “Worry about a thing,” Mitch finished, and added another bill. Pizza and the new neighbor might be just the distraction he needed.
    The boy counted his tip. “Okay, thanks.” For all he knew, the Wallaces wouldn’t be half as generous.
    With the box balanced in his hand, Mitch started out. Then he remembered his keys. He took a moment to search through his worn jeans before he remembered he’d tossed them at the gateleg table when he’d come in the night before. He found them under it, stuck them in one pocket, found the hole in it and stuck them in the other. He hoped the pizza had some pepperoni.
    “That should be the pizza,” Hester announced, but caught Radley before he could dash to the door. “Let me open it. Remember the rules?”
    “Don’t open the door unless you know who it is,” Radley recited, rolling his eyes behind his mother’s back.
    Hester put a hand on the knob but checked the peephole. She frowned a little at the