Bright Futures lf-6

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Maybe,” said Victor who stood looking out the window at nothing.

  Ames and I both looked at him.

  “Maybe,” Victor continued, “the person shooting at you is not the killer of Horvecki and Berrigan.”

  With my Bank of America pen, we made a list of everyone we could think of who would know I was trying to find a suspect other than the former Ronnie Gerall. The list was long.

  “Where do we start?” Ames asked.

  I told him and he said, “Dangerous out there for you.” “Whoever is shooting at me,” I said, “is a rotten shot. Plus, he won’t shoot at me again till he knows I haven’t dropped the case.”

  “She,” said Ames.

  “Right,” I said. “He or she.”

  “Let’s do it,” said Ames and we went out the door and down to my car.

  Victor sat in the back, Ames next to me. I turned the key and the Saturn powered on with something approaching a purr.

  “Worked on it early this morning, before church,” Ames said.

  “Sounds great,” I said.

  “It’ll do,” he said.

  I didn’t ask Ames what church he belonged to, though I knew he would tell me. I didn’t ask Ames if he had a weapon under his well-worn tan suede jacket, though I knew there was one there.

  We got to the church in Cortez just before noon. Services were over, but the Reverend Jack Pepper was delivering a pensive message on station WTLW.

  “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” came Pepper’s voice over the radio as we sat listening to the man in the small studio in the building just beyond the tall metal mesh gate. “But we are the vessels of the Lord, the instruments of the Lord. What if the Lord calls upon us to seek his vengeance?”

  He paused for a few seconds to let his listeners consider what he had just said. I imagined a 1930s farm couple, Dad in his overalls, Mom wiping her hands on her apron, son on the floor looking up at an old Atwater Kent radio as if it might suddenly turn into a television set. I wondered how many people actually listened to Jack Pepper.

  “Ponder this further,” Pepper said. “How will we know when it is the Lord commanding us? We have free will for the Lord has given it to us along with many of the blessings of life including the bounty of the seas right in our own waters-fish, shrimp, crab, scallops, lobster. When are we really hearing the Lord? I’ll answer this after these messages from the good Christian business in our own neighborhood.”

  I got out of the car after telling Victor to get behind the wheel and Ames to stand by the gate and be ready. I wanted to talk to Jack Pepper alone.

  As Ames and I walked to the gate, I could hear Victor behind us, listening to Jack Pepper urging his good listeners to buy their bait and tackle at Smitty’s Bait and Tackle.

  I pushed the button next to the gate. Pepper, complete in suit and tie, came out, told the dog to go sit “over there,” and let me in.

  “You find something that will help Gerall?” he asked opening the gate to let me in.

  “Maybe,” I said. “I’ve got a few questions.”

  “I’ve got to get back on the air,” he said, motioning for me to follow him. I did.

  There was no one but Pepper and me in the reception room, and through the glass window I saw no one in the studio. Pepper opened the studio door, hurried in and sat just as the commercial ended. The speaker connected to the studio crackled with age, but it worked. Pepper put on his earphones, hit a switch and said, “You are waiting for an answer to the question I posed before the break, and I’ll give it to you. You’ll know that it is the voice of the Lord because your heart is cleansed and you follow the Ten Commandments and the teachings of Jesus. The wayward will hear the voice of the Devil; the good will hear the voice of the Lord.”

  He said he would take calls if anyone wished to ask questions or give testimony. He gave the number and repeated it.

  The phone rang.

  “A call,” Pepper said hopefully. He picked up the phone in the studio and said, “Jesus and I are listening to you.”

  At 1 p.m. Jack Pepper signed off, saying, “WTLW will return to the air tomorrow morning at ten. Join us if you can and trust in the Lord.”

  Back in the reception area, Jack Pepper said, “We’ve got Dr Pepper, Mr. Pibb, canned iced tea, and all kinds of Coke in the refrigerator.”

  I declined. He moved behind the receptionist and manager’s desk and came up with a can of Coke, which he opened, drank from, and said, “Parched.”

  “Which of you was at Horvecki’s house the night he was murdered?”

  He swished some Coke around in his mouth wondering if he should lie.

  “Rachel Horvecki and Ronnie Gerrall both say they saw a pickup truck in front of Horvecki’s house that night,” I went on. “There was a man in it. You or Williams?”

  “And if I say neither?”

  “Then you’d be lying and Ronnie would be one step closer to death row.”

  “I think the Lord sent you,” he said softly. “It was me. We’d been watching Horvecki’s house whenever we could, waiting for him to commit a new abomination. A man cannot help being the creature the Lord created, but he can do battle with his nature.”

  “You saw and did what?”

  He took another drink, let out an “aah,” and said, “A few minutes after midnight I hear voices inside the house, voices filled with hate. And then a thudding sound. Ronnie comes down the street just about then and goes in the house. Man in a watch cap climbs out the window at the side of the house and goes running down the street. Ronnie comes outside like a flash, looks around, and goes back inside.”

  “How loud were the noises and voices inside the house before Ronnie showed up?” I asked.

  “Loud enough,” he said. “Police came just about then, went in, and you know the rest.”

  “How long between the time Ronnie came out to look around and the time the police arrived?”

  “Less than a minute,” he said. “No noise. Police there almost instantly, which could mean-”

  “Whoever called 911 did it before Ronnie got there,” I said.

  “The murderer called 911?” asked Pepper.

  “Where was Williams that night?” I asked.

  “I’m not my brother’s keeper,” he said.

  “Did either Ronnie or Rachel see you in front of the house?”

  “Probably,” he said. “I wasn’t hiding. I wanted Horvecki to know I was there watching. The police will want a statement from me, won’t they?”

  “They will,” I said.

  “There is a restraining order against Essau and me. I prayed it wouldn’t be necessary for me to come forward,” he said. “I prayed that the real killer would step forth or be exposed before I had to speak out, but it looks as if the Lord has chosen me to speak the truth. It will be in the newspapers won’t it?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  He clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and dropped his head in prayer.

  I left the building.

  The dog got up, looked at me, and growled deeply. I wouldn’t make it to the gate if she didn’t want me to, and she didn’t look as if she wanted me to. I looked at the door. Pepper did not come out.

  “Steady on, girl,” Ames called.

  The big dog took slow, stalking steps in my direction. Pepper still did not appear. The dog rocked back, ready to pounce, when Ames’s voice boomed with authority.

  “I said steady on.”

  The dog looked at him as he took another step toward me. Ames came out with a small gun, which slipped out of his sleeve and into his hand.

  I hadn’t moved, but the dog had. She was a few steps from me, now, and growling again. Ames fired into the air and the dog scampered off to a far corner. Then Pepper appeared in the doorway of the building. He looked at me and Ames and then at the dog.

  “You shot her,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “She’s just frightened.”

  “So are we all,” said Pepper. “So are we all.�
��

  17

  A lean white heron stood on one leg atop the rusting pickup truck on Zo Hirsch’s lawn. The bird looked at me, and I looked back. He considered putting his foot back down but changed his mind as I walked up the cracked concrete path to the front door.

  “You,” Hirsch said opening the door and looking up at me.

  “Me,” I admitted.

  “You’ve got the papers, right? More courts and lawyers after me? Okay, bring it on.”

  I handed him the envelope with the summons enclosed.

  “They can’t get blood out of a banana and I’m a banana.”

  “Your wife?” I asked.

  “And the third-rate shortstop,” he said. “I made an offer they couldn’t refuse, and they refused it. I’m down to selling off some of my collection. Interested in buying a genuine Cleveland Indians sweatshirt once worn by Larry Doby?”

  “How much?”

  “Two thousand.”

  “What do you have under a hundred?”

  “Baseball autographed by George Altman, a Cub. Led the National League with twelve triples in 1962.”

  “How much?”

  “My pride is gone. I’ll take what you offer over fifty dollars.” I took out my wallet, found two twenties and a ten and handed it to him.

  “Can we talk?” I asked.

  “We are talking.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “What the hell.”

  He pocketed the money and stood back to let me in. I moved into the living room and sat down. Black baseball players in poses and smiles looked down at me. Zo Hirsch, summons and the cash I had given him in hand, hurried off to the back of the house and returned almost immediately with the baseball. He tossed it to me. Then he sat in the chair across from mine.

  “You want something to drink? I’m down to store-brand ersatz cola and root beer from a dollar store. It tastes vaguely like something besides tap water.”

  “Tempting,” I said, “but no, thanks.”

  “Simply put,” he said, “what do you want from me? There isn’t much left, but what there is, with the exception of a few treasures, is for sale.”

  “Horvecki,” I said. “You were his only friend.”

  “Friend,” he repeated the word, more to himself than to me. “We talked baseball, had drinks.”

  “He talk about anything else? What did he care about?”

  “Guns,” said Zo Hirsch, “and his daughter, Rachel. I only saw her a few times a couple of years ago. Cute kid, too skinny, didn’t talk. My ex-wife was not too skinny and she could talk, mostly in Spanish. She called me ‘Pequeno.’ You now what that means?”

  “Little,” I said.

  “At first she said it with a smile and a touch. Later she said it with a hiss and folded arms. A piece of work.”

  “Horvecki,” I reminded him. “What else?”

  “He liked the ladies. They didn’t like him. He paid for companionship. Come to think of it, so did I.”

  Zo Hirsch sat back in the chair and drummed his fingers on the arms.

  “Pine View and Bright Futures,” I said.

  “Oh yeah, almost forgot. He hated them both. His kid got turned down by Pine View. He was determined to bring the school and that Bright Futures program down. He didn’t talk about it much, but when he did, that was what he said. He supplemented his daughter’s education by teaching her how to ride, shoot, learn his truth about history, which was wacky. Next question.”

  “Wacky?”

  “Phil had a long list of groups he hated. The School Board, the ACLU, the Demo cratic Party, lawyers, psychiatrists, teamsters, television writers, professional tennis players-”

  “Enough,” I said. “I get it.”

  “You gotta give him credit,” said Zo Hirsch. “The man knew how to hate.”

  “Your friend?”

  “No,” he said. “But the man knew baseball.”

  “He was ruthless in business,” I said. “He was a giant five-story steamroller in business. He crushed and was proud of it.”

  “What was in it for you?”

  Zo Hirsch squirmed a little in his seat, shook his head and looked toward the recently repaired front window.

  “He bought baseball memorabilia from me, paid more than top dollar, never even questioned authenticity. Philip Horvecki was a substantial part of my income.”

  “He was a-”

  “Sucker,” said Zo Hirsch, “but he knew it. I think he was buying a friend. I was happy to sell. The guy really did know baseball and he served good lunches.”

  “Why you? There are plenty of people for sale.”

  “He liked showing me off,” said Zo Hirsch. “It made people uncomfortable. A little black man. He liked making people uncomfortable. One more question. Then I’ve got to go see my lawyer to find out if there’s anything to salvage. I hope he suggests that I hire a hit man and get rid of my ex-wife and the shortstop. You on that bicycle again?”

  “No. I’ve got a car.”

  “Good. You can give me a ride. On the way, I’ll give you my all-time favorite Cubs lineup and you can do the same.”

  I put the slightly tarnished George Altman autographed ball in the glove compartment and drove Zo Hirsch to an office building on Orange, just north of Ringling.

  When Hirsch got out of the car, he hesitated and said, “Phil Horvecki was a shit, but he was my friend, sort of, the poor bastard.”

  I watched him walk to the big double-thick glass doors and reach up for the handle. He pulled the door open with dignity and strength and disappeared inside.

  I wondered how he planned to get back home.

  After I called her, Alana Legerman met me at the FourGees Coffee Shop on Beneva and Webber. She was reluctant. I was persuasive. I didn’t try to tell her that I was still trying to save Ronnie. I told her I wanted to talk to her about her son.

  The lunch crowd had cleared out. I had a choice of the bright, sunny room where there were small tables, but I chose the back room, dark and minimally plush, with music piped in at a level where one could still have a conversation.

  She came in after I did, just as the last customers, three women, moved out of the side room and left. She saw me, walked over, and sat, hands in her lap. She wore a light blue dress with short sleeves and a black belt with a big silver buckle. She was doing Grace Kelly ice princess, and she was good at it.

  “I’m waiting,” she said.

  A lean girl, barely out of her teens, came in to take our order.

  “Coffee and a scone,” I said.

  “Prune?”

  “Plain.”

  The waitress turned to Alana, who said, “Tea, mint.”

  “That’s it?” asked the girl.

  I said it was, and Alana went back to her patient waiting pose.

  “Does Greg own a pellet rifle?”

  “My son owns whatever he wants. His grandfather doesn’t deny him anything.”

  “So, he owns a pellet rifle?”

  She shrugged.

  “Who knows? I’ve never seen him with one.”

  “Why does Greg want to save Ronnie Gerall?”

  “They’re friends. That’s how I had the bad fortune to meet Ronnie.”

  “What kind of friends?” I asked.

  This time she cocked her head back in a becoming look of surprise.

  “You’re suggesting my son and Ronnie had a homosexual relationship?”

  “No. That didn’t occur to me, but I’ll think about it. Did Ronnie rule in their relationship?”

  “Probably,” she said.

  “Have you ever seen Ronnie act violent?”

  “No.”

  “Does Greg have any other friends besides Winston Graeme?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “When did they become friends?”

  “About a year ago. No, two years ago. Winn Graeme is very protective of my son. My father and I are both very grateful for it, though I must confess that I don’t understand w
hy the boy puts up with Greg.”

  “Greg keeps punching him in the arm,” I said.

  “A token of my son’s inability to come up with a painless way of expressing his friendship. His therapist assures me that when he gets to Duke he will mature. What is this all about?”

  Our coffee and tea came. I picked up the check. We drank in silence for a few seconds, and then I said, “Does Greg write poetry?”

  “Poetry? You ask the damnedest questions. Greg writes poetry, short stories, does sketches and paintings that could earn him a scholarship, and he reads at a rate that is not a treat to watch. He doesn’t just read. He devours books.”

  “Do you and your father want Ronnie to go to prison for murder?”

  “We’ll be satisfied to have him sent away for pretending to be a high school student or, better yet, whatever he did in Texas that he and his wife ran away from.”

  “Your whole family hired me to find evidence that he didn’t kill Horvecki.”

  “My father and I have changed our minds,” she said, finishing her coffee. “The job has changed. If you find evidence that he killed Horvecki or that other man…”

  “Blue Berrigan.”

  “Blue Berrigan,” she repeated with a shake of her head. “What kind of people have we gotten ourselves involved with? No answer is required.”

  I gave none.

  “Are we finished?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I have another appointment.”

  She got up, picked up her purse, and said, “Nail the bastard.”

  “Someone else said the same thing.”

  “A woman?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Of course,” she said and strode away.

  When she was gone, I made a call and got through after two rings.

  “This is Lew Fonesca.”

  “I know,” said Winn Graeme.

  “I’d like to see you.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Where?”

  “FourGees. It’s-”

  “I know where it is. You have something?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I had a refill of coffee and waited, listening to Rufus Wainwright sing “Not Ready To Love.”