Bright Futures lf-6

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  It took him twenty-five minutes before he came into the backroom. He adjusted his glasses to be sure I was the person he was looking for.

  “I’m missing golf practice,” he said, sitting down in the same seat Alana Legerman had been in. “I had to tell the coach and tell him my mother called and said she wasn’t feeling well.”

  “He believed you?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t call me a liar. I don’t like lying. What’s going on? Why isn’t Greg here?”

  “You go everywhere together?”

  “Pretty much,” he said. “We’re friends.”

  The waitress came back to take our order and get a good look at Winn Graeme.

  “Are you Winston Graeme?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I saw you play Riverview,” she said. “You had twenty-four points. My boyfriend was Terry Beacham, but we’re not together anymore.”

  It was a clear invitation, but not to Winn, who said, “You have a caffeine-free diet cola?”

  “Just Diet Coke.”

  “I’ll have that,” he said, looking at me and not at the girl, who got the message and moved away.

  She had forgotten to ask if I wanted a refill or something else.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you and Greg friends?”

  “He’s smart and we get along. Sometimes you can’t explain things like friendship.”

  “I think I can explain it,” I said. “How much does Greg’s grandfather pay you to take care of his grandson and pretend to be his friend.”

  Winn put his head down and then brought it up, adjusting his glasses again.

  “Mr. Corkle pays me fifteen hundred dollars a month in cash.”

  “How long has he been doing this?”

  “Since Greg’s sixteenth birthday party. My father lost his job when I was fifteen. He had a drinking problem. He was sixty-one when he lost the job. Since then he’s made some money at home on his eBay trades. Some money, but not a lot, and my mother stands on her feet eight hours a day selling clothes at Beals. I need a scholarship. I need Bright Futures. I need fifteen hundred dollars a month. Wherever Greg goes to college, I’ll go to college so the money won’t stop.”

  “What else would you like?”

  “I’d like it if Greg didn’t find out about his mother and Ronnie and about me taking money from his grandfather.”

  “You think I’ll tell him?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “I won’t tell him. You own a pellet gun?”

  “No, why?”

  “Someone’s been trying to shoot me with one.”

  “If I were trying to shoot you would I tell you I had a gun?” he asked.

  “Good point. People sometimes admit things they shouldn’t.”

  A man in his late forties or early fifties and a woman who might have been his daughter came in the back room. He was wearing a business suit and tie. She was wearing less than she should have been. The man looked at Winn Graeme and me. Then the two of them sat on a sofa in the shadows under the speaker.

  “You know that girl?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “She nodded at you.”

  Winn shook his head before saying, “I know her. She graduated from Riverview last year. She was a cheerleader. Her name is Hope something.”

  “Small town,” I said, looking at the pair, who were whispering now, the girl shaking her head.

  “That’s not her father,” Winn said.

  “How do you know?”

  “That’s Mr. Milikin, lawyer downtown. Wife, four kids. He’s on the board of everything in the county.”

  I looked at the couple. Mr. Milikin looked as if he were perspiring. His eyes darted toward the archway leading into the other room. He didn’t want to see any familiar faces.

  “Ronnie’s going to be like that if he lives long enough,” Winn said.

  “Like Milikin?”

  “No.”

  “Horvecki,” I said.

  “We didn’t kill him.”

  “We?”

  “Greg and I. We tried to talk to him a few times. So did others. Didn’t do any good.”

  “You went to his house?”

  “Once. He wouldn’t let us in, threatened to call the police if we didn’t go away. He said he had the right to bear arms and protect himself, his family, and his property. He said, ‘Under my roof, we know how to use a gun!’ ”

  “And?”

  “We went away. Is that all?”

  I looked at him and he forced himself to look back for an instant before giving his glasses another adjustment.

  “That’s all,” I said.

  Winn Graeme stood up, started to turn, and then turned back to me to say, “Don’t hurt Greg.”

  “That a warning?”

  “A plea.”

  He didn’t look toward Mr. Milikin and the former cheerleader as he left. The girl glanced at him, but Milikin was so busy pleading his case that he didn’t notice. He just kept perspiring.

  I had almost enough information now. There was only one more person I had to see. I paid the waitress, who said, “He’s a fantastic basketball player. Jumps like a black guy. You know where he’s going to college?”

  “Yes,” I said and went around the tables and through the door.

  I was careful. I could have been more careful. Ann Hurwitz would know why I didn’t exercise more caution. Pellets might fly. I might catch one in the eye like Augustine. I was reasonably sure of who the shooter would be, but Augustine was the person who could make it a certainty.

  The shot didn’t come until I opened the door to get into the Saturn, which was wedged between two SUVs at the far end of the lot, a few spaces from the exit on Webber.

  The shot didn’t come from a pellet gun.

  The first bullet shattered the driver side window showering shards on the seat. I turned to look in the direction from which I thought the bullet had been fired.

  Something came at me from around one of the SUVs. It hit me, knocked me backward to the ground, and landed on me. I panted for breath. A second shot came but I didn’t hear it hit the ground or my car or the pavement.

  I lay there for a beat, the weight on my chest and stomach, an arm covering my chest, and looked up to see, inches from my nose, Victor Woo.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  I tried to answer but couldn’t speak. He understood and rolled off to the side. I started to get up but he held a hand out to keep me down. He listened, watched for about half a minute, and then helped me up.

  “He’s gone,” he said.

  The shooter wasn’t trying to frighten me off anymore. We had gone beyond that, to murder.

  “I followed you,” Victor said at my side.

  “Thanks,” I said trying to catch my breath.

  “That last shot might have killed you,” he said.

  “Might have, yes,” I acknowledged.

  “It would have hit you.”

  He was trying to make a point, but I wasn’t sure what it was. He turned around so I could see where the bullet had entered his right arm through the red Florida State University sweatshirt he was wearing, the arm he had draped over my chest. There was remarkably little blood.

  “It ricocheted off the ground before it hit me,” he said.

  “I’ll drive you to the ER.”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll stop somewhere, clean it, put on a bandage and some tape. The bullet just scratched my arm. It’s not inside me.”

  Cliches abound from old movies. “It’s just a flesh wound.” “I’ve had worse bites from a Louisiana mosquito.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said.

  “I want to go home,” he said. “I saved your life. It is all I can do. It doesn’t make up for killing your wife, but it’s all I can do.”

  “I forgave you for killing Catherine.”

  “But when you said it before, you didn’t mean it,
” he said. “This time you do. I’ve been away from home too long.”

  I reached out to shake his hand. He winced as he briefly held my grip.

  “My bedroll is in my car,” he added. “I’m leaving from here. If I can ever be of any service…”

  “I know where to find you,” I said, but we both knew I would never call.

  “You know who’s trying to kill you?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Stop them,” he said.

  And he was gone. I held up my hands. I felt calm, but my hands were both shaking. Can the body be afraid when the mind isn’t? I knew the mind could be afraid when the body of a policeman went through the door of an apartment where a crazed father held a gun to his ten-year-old daughter’s head, or when a fireman made a dash into a burning building where he heard the cry of a cat. It was a question for Ann.

  When I opened the car door, I saw the folded sheet of paper with the words:

  I whisper your name in the book of one more tomorrow knowing your yesterdays were filled with sorrow.

  Migrating birds soar South then North again.

  North into night flying over your solitary den.

  Luck will not last.

  Move fast.

  Move past.

  Thou hast

  No more tomorrows.

  I cleaned up as much of the glass on the seat and the floor as I could and got in my car. Once I was seated I saw more shining shards on the passenger seat. I swept them on the floor with my hand and called Ames.

  “Real bullets this time,” I said.

  “You all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Same shooter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure?”

  “I’m sure. Where are you?”

  “The office.”

  “I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. A weapon would be in order.”

  “Got one,” he said.

  When I got to the house, Ames was coming down the steps. The day was cool enough that his lightweight leather jacket wouldn’t draw attention and whatever weapon he was carrying would remain hidden.

  “Watch out for the glass,” I said as he started to get in the car.

  “I’ll fix that window when we’re done,” he said swiping away at some of the glass bits I had missed.

  He sat, looked at me and said, “Let’s do it.”

  18

  "Took you a while,” Corkle said, opening the door. “Come in.”

  He was wearing tan slacks, a dark lightweight sweater and a blue blazer. Well dressed for a man who never left his house.

  Ames and I followed him as he led the way to the rear of the house and onto a tiled, screen-covered lanai. The kidney shaped pool was filled with clear blue-green water.

  A glass pitcher of something with ice and slices of lemon in it sat on a dark wooden table. There were five glasses.

  Behind the table stood Jeffrey Augustine, black eye patch and all.

  “It’s just lemonade,” said Corkle. “Mr. Augustine will pour you both a glass, and we can sit and talk.”

  Both Ames and I took a glass of lemonade from Augustine. I took off my Cubs cap and put it in my back pocket.

  “I feel like one of those rich bad guys in a fifties movie,” said Corkle, glass in hand, sitting on a wooden lawn chair that matched the table. “Like what’s his name, Fred…”

  “Clark?” I said, sitting next to him.

  Ames stood where he could watch Augustine, who was also standing. Augustine wasn’t drinking.

  “Yeah, that’s the guy,” said Corkle. “Bald, heavyset sometimes, a little mustache. That’s the guy. Fonesca, D. Elliot Corkle is not the bad guy here, Fonesca.”

  “You kidnapped Rachel Horvecki,” I said.

  “Mr. Augustine brought her here to protect her,” said Corkle, looking at the lemonade after taking a long drink. “She came willingly, and you two executed a flawless rescue.”

  “Protect her from what?”

  “She’s rich now,” he said. “Someone might be inclined to take a shot at her or drop a safe on her in the hope and expectation of getting her money.”

  “Ronnie.”

  “Ronnie Gerall, otherwise known as Dwight Torcelli,” he said. “I’ve known Rachel since she was a baby. Always been a little bit in outer space. Her father put her there. Good kid. She deserves better than Torcelli. So does my daughter.”

  “Someone tried to kill me about an hour ago in the parking lot at Beneva and Webber.”

  “With a pellet gun?” he asked looking at Augustine whose fingers automatically reached for his eye patch.

  “With a rifle.”

  “You know why?” he asked, drinking more lemonade.

  “Because I’ve been talking to people.”

  “People?”

  “People who told me who killed Philip Horvecki and Blue Berrigan.”

  Corkle held up his lemonade and said, “Pure lemonade with small pieces of lemon evenly distributed throughout. Good, huh?”

  “Very good,” I said.

  “Made with the Corkle Mini-Multi Mixer Dispenser. Put in the water, the ice, lemons, push a button. It works almost silently; you just place the individual glass under the spout, and it fills automatically. Same perfect taste every time. Works with lemons, oranges, berries, any fruit or vegetable. Cleans with one easy rinse. I like orange-banana.”

  “You know who killed them,” I said.

  “I’ll give you both a Corkle Mini-Multi Mixer Dispenser when you leave,” he said. “Parting gift. Much as D. Elliot Corkle enjoys your company, he doesn’t think we can be friends. Are you owed more money for your troubles?”

  “No,” I said.

  “If there’s nothing else…”

  “Nothing else.”

  Augustine had placed his empty glass on the table and folded his arms in front of him.

  At the front door, we waited while Corkle got us each a boxed Corkle Mini-Multi Mixer Dispenser. Ames handed his to me. They were lighter than they looked.

  When we cleared the door, Ames said, “I’ll take that now.” He took his Corkle Mini-Multi Mixer Dispenser and added, “He was armed. Augustine.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “I think it best if I keep my hands free till we’re away. Where to now?” Ames asked.

  “To see a baby and get something to eat.”

  “I’ll watch for snipers,” he said.

  About a block from Corkle’s I said, “Victor’s gone.”

  “Where?”

  “Home.”

  “Good.”

  “He saved my life when the shooting started.”

  “He was waiting for something like that.”

  “You knew?”

  “I figured,” said Ames.

  “I should have,” I said.

  Flo was home alone with Catherine who toddled toward us, arms out for Ames to pick her up, which he did.

  “Gifts for you,” I said, handing her both Pulp-O-Matics.

  “Those are the things I saw on television years ago,” she said. “Almost bought one then. My friend Molly Sternheiser had one. Said it was a piece of shit. Tried to get her money back. Never did. Now, for some reason, I’ve got one and a backup.”

  Flo had given up her flow of curse words when Adele and Catherine came into her life. Every once in a while, however, a small colorful noun bursts out unbidden.

  “Don’t try to understand,” I said. “Just mix.”

  She reached up, took my cap from my head and handed it to me. I pocketed it.

  The music throughout the house wasn’t blaring, but it was as present as always.

  “That’s Hank Snow,” she said. “ ‘Moving On.’ ”

  Flo was wearing one of her leather skirts and a white blouse. She only had six or seven rings on her fingers. She was dressing down.

  “Hungry?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, watching Catherine and Ames, who were almost face to face and both very serious.

&nbs
p; The baby reached up and touched his nose with pudgy fingers.

  “I’ll find something to eat,” said Flo.

  “Adele?”

  “School,” she said. “How about chili? Got a lot left over from dinner yesterday.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  She went to the kitchen while I sat and listened to Hank Snow and watched Catherine and Ames. After a minute or so he handed the baby to me and went toward the kitchen to help Flo.

  Catherine was pink and pretty, like her mother. She sat on my lap and started gently bumping her head against my chest until Flo called, “Come and get it!”

  The chili was good, not too spicy. We drank Diet Cokes and talked.

  Catherine in her high chair worked on crackers. I watched her. I was here for a few minutes of sanity.

  I told Flo that Ames and I were now officially partners.

  “That a fact?” she said.

  “Fact,” Ames confirmed.

  “How’s the new place working out?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  Ames ate his chili straight. I filled mine with crumbled crackers.

  I had been aware for some time that if Ames indicated something beyond friendship in his relationship with Flo, she would be receptive. Flo was somewhere around sixty-five years old. Ames was over seventy. Flo had a built-in family to offer-herself, Adele, and the baby, plus the money her husband Gus had left her.

  I didn’t think Ames was in the market, but the door was open.

  Adele called. She was going to be late. Flo told her we were there. Adele said she was sorry.

  Catherine was in Flo’s arms and George Jones was singing “He Stopped Loving Her Today” when we left. Ames went out first and looked around to be sure no one was about to shoot at me. There was no real cover around the houses in the area, which was almost without trees and bushes. The trees that did exist were, like the houses, only five or six years old.

  “Next stop?” asked Ames, riding shotgun again as I drove.

  “I’ve got dinner with Sally,” I said.

  “Best be looking for whoever’s shooting at you.”

  “I think I know.”

  I told him. He nodded.

  “So,” he said. “I keep an eye on the shooter.”

  “Yes.”

  We met at Miss Saigon just across 301 from the Greyhound bus station. The restaurant was in a small, downscale mall with mostly Hispanic businesses: a tienda, a travel agency, a beauty shop, a check-cashing service. One of the shops in the mall was, according to Ettiene Viviase, a legitimate business and a front for a neighborhood mom-and-pop numbers racket.