Vengeance

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Fonesca, yes. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. This is Beryl Tree, Adele’s mother.”

  Sally Porovsky’s voice was exactly as I remembered it. Musical, a little husky. Sally rose, took Beryl’s hand and smiled, guiding her to the extra chair in her cubicle. This time I stood, a step back.

  “I’m sorry to ask you this,” Sally said gently, leaning toward Beryl and lowering her voice. “But do you have some proof of your relationship to Adele?”

  “Got her birth certificate in my purse, photographs, report cards from grade school, health insurance, Social Security card, whatever I could find when I came out here.”

  She opened her purse and began fishing out folded pieces of paper, cards and photographs of Adele. Sally examined them, returned some and asked Beryl if she could make copies of the ones she had kept.

  “Just so I get ’em back,” she said.

  “I’ll do that now and give them right back. Can I get you a coffee, Coke, water?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Mr. Fonesca?”

  “Lew,” I said. “No, thanks.”

  “Be right back.”

  Sally moved across the room and disappeared to the left behind a pile of cardboard boxes.

  “I like her,” said Beryl.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You can tell with some people,” Beryl said. “I think she tried to help Adele.”

  I agreed. Sally returned in less than three minutes carrying a manila folder, handed the original documents to Beryl, who put them in her purse, and sat down.

  “Mrs. Tree,” she said. “Your daughter said her name was Prescott, Adele Prescott.”

  “Prescott?”

  “Her father’s name is Dwight Prescott.”

  “No, it’s Dwight Handford.”

  “He said it was Prescott. He had a driver’s license, Social Security number, Sarasota address,” said Sally, putting her hand on Beryl’s. “Since Adele confirmed he was her father and … Mrs. Tree, they said you were dead.”

  “Adele told you I was dead?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “He made her,” Beryl said. “She was afraid of him.”

  “She came to Sarasota on her own to look for him, Mrs. Tree,” said Sally. “That’s a brave thing to do for a sixteen-year-old girl.”

  “She told you she was sixteen?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s fourteen,” said Beryl. “Her birthday was on the fourth of last month.”

  Sally sat back, sighed, closed her eyes and looked up at me. I nodded to confirm what Beryl had said so far.

  “Your daughter got in trouble with the police,” Sally said. “They referred her and her father to us. The referral was mandatory, court ordered. That meant they had to work with us.”

  Someone laughed, a man on a telephone not far away.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “She was soliciting,” Sally said, taking Beryl’s hand again.

  Beryl nodded. She knew what that meant and the information didn’t seem to surprise her. It hurt, but she wasn’t surprised.

  “Where is she now?” asked Beryl.

  “We don’t know,” said Sally. “We’re looking for her. Her father hasn’t been very cooperative and … we’re looking. Beryl, Adele said some things to me that … How can I put this? Did your husband ever abuse your daughter?”

  “Hit her?”

  The pause was long.

  “Sexually,” said Sally.

  This pause was even longer. I turned away.

  “I …” Beryl began. “I don’t know for sure. He went to prison for …”

  “He sexually abused a young relative,” I said.

  “I thought maybe when Adele was …” Beryl said. “But I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. Adele never said anything. I can’t think.”

  “I understand. Are you going to be in town for a while?”

  “Till Adele and I get on a train, plane or bus out of here,” she said.

  “Is there anywhere I can reach you?”

  Beryl looked up at me. I gave Sally my home-office number.

  “Mrs. Tree’ll be staying with a friend. I think you should know that she ran into her husband two days ago. He hit her. Then he called her this morning and threatened to kill her if she didn’t stop looking for her daughter.”

  “Did anyone hear the threat?” asked Sally.

  “I did,” said Beryl.

  “Anyone else?”

  “No,” I said.

  We exchanged looks that said we both knew there was nothing the law could do.

  “I’ll call Mr. Fonesca if we find Adele,” Sally said, getting up and helping Beryl to her feet.

  “Thank you,” said Beryl.

  “I’ll meet you at the elevator,” I said to Beryl. “I’ve got to ask Ms. Porovsky something.”

  Beryl nodded and. moved toward the elevator.

  “The answer is yes,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Dinner, remember?”

  “I remember,” I said. “Tomorrow night. Seven?”

  “That’s cutting it a little tight,” she said. “I’ve got a home visit in Englewood till five. Make it seven-thirty.”

  “Dress casual,” I said.

  “Fonesca, this might be a mistake for both of us.”

  “Might be,” I agreed.

  She handed me a card. I turned it over. There was a phone number and address in ink:

  “Seven-thirty, then. You like kids?”

  “Huh?”

  “I have two kids, a boy and girl. Thirteen and nine.”

  “I like kids,” I said.

  “Well, be prepared for these two. Dinner only, quick, home and friendly. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” I said, looking at Beryl at the elevator. “I’m not dangerous.”

  “I wouldn’t have said yes if I thought you were,” she said. “In my work, I see dangerous people all the time.”

  “Since we’re on the subject, think you can give me Handford’s address?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “But I gave Mrs. Tree his current name. I think you heard it.”

  “Prescott,” I said.

  She said nothing.

  “Dwight Prescott,” I said.

  “Got to get back to work,” she said. “See you tomorrow night.”

  John Detchon waved to us from behind his receptionist’s desk as we left the building. He seemed to be reasonably happy. I wasn’t sure how I was feeling.

  5

  GUS ZINK HAD DIED more than a year ago. Natural causes. I understand the distinction between murder, manslaughter and accident and natural causes— breakdown of the body, invasion by disease. But it all seems natural in a screwy kind of way. Murder is natural. Usually wrong, but natural.

  Gus had come to Sarasota with his wife, Flo, more than a decade ago. He was retired, had money, got elected to the city council as an independent, made enemies and had gone out swinging.

  During his campaigns, necessary public talks, lunches, dinners and various appearances, Gus had done his best to make excuses for the absence of his wife. She was ill or she was touring Europe or visiting one of her brothers or sisters in Alaska, Montana, California or Vermont. The Zinks had no children.

  Just before he died, Gus, already more than just sick, was kidnapped to keep him from a key council vote on where to put a branch library. There was big money on the line, big enough to make some landowners and contractors want to insure the location.

  I had been hired by the city’s only black councilman to find Gus Zink. I had found him. Gus started to fail fast after that last council meeting. He and Flo had gone north, to Vermont, where Gus had been raised. When he died, Flo came back to their house in Sarasota. The house was on the bay but on the mainland, not one of the Keys.

  Flo Zink answered the door, a familiar glass of amber liquid in her hand. She looked at me, grinned, winked at Ames, who nodded, and turned her
attention to Beryl Tree. A woman sang plaintively inside the house. I recognized the voice and the song. It was Patsy Cline.

  Flo was in her late sixties. She was dressed in a black silver-studded skirt and vest over a blue denim shirt. She wore boots and looked as if she were on her way to do some line dancing. She was a barrel of a woman, with too much makeup, large earrings, and the distinctly vacant look of a heavy drinker. Even through her generously applied perfume there was a smell of scotch, probably good scotch. Flo, I had learned from personal experience, held her alcohol well, but once in a while there was a scotch overdose and the well-rounded widow Zink turned honest and foul-mouthed.

  “I’m Flo,” she said to Beryl Tree. “Come on in and let’s get friendly. You can tell me your story. I’ll tell you mine.”

  Flo put her free arm around Beryl and guided her into the house. Ames and I followed.

  Flo led us into the living room with a view of the bay. The furniture around the room looked as if it belonged on the set of a Clint Eastwood western. Wood, old brown leather, a rough-hewn table made from a thick slice of redwood, and animal skins for rugs. Two paintings on the wall were authentic Remingtons— galloping cowboys, Indians riding bareback.

  Flo moved to the double-speakered stereo against the wall and turned Patsy Cline down but not off.

  “What are we drinking?” asked Flo. “I know Lew is beer, which I don’t consider drinking, and McKinney here is straight whiskey, which he doesn’t drink till the sun goes down, so he’s having … ?”

  “You have Dr Pepper?” asked Ames.

  “I have every drink known to man or beast,” said Flo, holding up her glass to take a drink and purse her heavily painted lips. “Dr Pepper is coming up. And you, Ms. Tree?”

  “Beryl,” she said. “Just water.”

  “Suit yourself, my dear,” said Flo. “And have a seat. I’ll put your bag in your room.”

  Flo pointed to a leather chair with arms made from the antlers of something from the far north. Beryl sat.

  “Something to eat?”

  “We ate at the Texas,” I said.

  “That phony cowboy, Fairing, makes a decent bowl of chili. I’ll give the son of a bitch that.”

  Flo picked up the small suitcase and left us in the living room listening to Patsy Cline sing about how much her lover was hurting her.

  Flo wasn’t gone long. When she returned, she was carrying a tray with four drinks in tall glasses. The ice in the glasses clinked as she put the tray on the low redwood table.

  “This is my special,” Flo said. “You can drink Dr Pepper, beer and water and any other piss you want at the Texas. At Flo Zink’s you go with the special when the sun sinks its ass into the water, which is what it will be doing in about ten minutes. Now, if you want to sit and hold it while the ice melts and the sun disappears, you go right ahead, McKinney.”

  We all took a glass.

  “Here’s to getting through the shit,” said Flo, holding out her glass in a toast.

  I knew Flo’s special. We drank. Ames didn’t make a sound and his weathered face didn’t change. Beryl Tree choked and caught her breath.

  “You get used to it,” said Flo.

  “I like it,” said Beryl, taking another sip.

  “I’m gonna love this woman,” Flo said to me and Ames.

  I took a drink, steeling myself from the memory of the last time I had a special. It burned and tasted like sweet molten plastic. Flo was almost finished with her drink.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said after forcing down another small sip.

  Beryl continued to drink. Maybe she needed it.

  “She’ll be safe here,” said Flo. “At least from everybody but me.”

  I was familiar with Flo’s arsenal of weapons. They hung on wall racks or were displayed in cabinets in her gun room. I knew some of the guns were loaded. I didn’t know which ones.

  I turned to go.

  “You’ll find Adele,” said Beryl, fortified with Flo’s special, which seethed its way quickly into the nervous system.

  “I’ll find her,” I said. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Not too early,” said Flo. “We’re going to be talking most of the fuckin’ night. Sorry about my language, Beryl.”

  “I’m a waitress in a truck stop,” Beryl said. “I don’t think you could come up with anything I haven’t heard every day for the last twenty years.”

  “I can try,” said Flo, smiling sweetly.

  I dropped Ames back at the Texas and asked him to see if he could get any leads on Adele or Dwight. He nodded, got out and went inside. I headed back to that which passed as home.

  It wasn’t too late. The DQ parking lot was busy but not full. I parked toward the back of the lot, locked the Metro and headed toward the concrete stairs.

  I didn’t see him standing back in the shadows of the building and bushes near the stairway. But I did hear him when my hand touched the railing.

  “Where is she?” came the voice from the dark. It was a raspy voice, the voice of a man who might have played an outlaw or a tough sheriff on an old radio show. Or maybe Flo and Ed Fairing had just put me in a western mood.

  I stopped and looked toward the voice.

  He came out of the shadows. He was big. Boots, badly faded jeans, a short-sleeved button-down white shirt with green stripes. His hair was dark, long, tied back in a small ponytail. My first impression was that he was good-looking and dangerous. Some women, maybe a lot of women, liked that. Most men didn’t.

  There was nothing in his hands but his fists were clenched tight.

  I didn’t have to guess who he was.

  “Where’s Adele?” I asked.

  Dwight Handford was no more than three yards away and closing in slowly. I was on the second step. I turned to face him. With me standing on the second step our eyes were almost dead even. Even in the dim light I could see that his eyes were blue-gray and dancing.

  “You’re a dago, right?” he said.

  “And you’re a redneck,” I answered.

  “That sort of sets up how we’re gonna have this conversation,” he said. He had closed the distance between us to less than a yard. “Dagos understand violence.”

  “And rednecks know how to come up with it,” I said.

  “I’m not stupid, dago,” he said.

  “Can we switch to wop?” I asked.

  “Suit yourself,” he said with a smile. “I’m planning to hurt you just enough to let you know I’m serious.

  Then you’re gonna tell me where Beryl is. I’m gonna go see her and be sure she leaves town. You’re gonna stop looking for Adele and asking questions.”

  “How did you find out I was looking for you?” I asked.

  “You asked a lot of people,” he said, inches from my face now. “Where is she?”

  “Are you willing to kill me over this?” I asked.

  “Maybe, I’ve … maybe.”

  “I’m not telling you,” I said.

  He searched my eyes.

  “You’re not scared,” he said.

  “No.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” I said. “I’m not sure myself. Sometimes I think I came here to sit down in a chair, watch old videos, eat at the DQ and die.”

  “You’re a crazy son of a bitch,” said Handford.

  “I don’t know. I’ve thought about it. I don’t think so. But you may be right. I think it’s a lot more complicated than that.”

  “We’ll see,” he said, slamming his right fist into my stomach. I started to sink, grabbed the railing. Whatever was in my stomach wanted out. He’d missed the rib cage.

  “Where is Beryl?” he asked. “I’m not an unreasonable man. I just want to be left alone. I want Adele to be left alone. She’s mine and I fully intend to keep her and take care of her.”

  “You’ve done a great job so far,” I said, sinking back on the steps and letting go of the rail so I could clutch my stomach. “Yo
u’ve got her out selling herself on the Trail.”

  He stood over me, hands on his hips, and shook his head.

  “It’s all fuckin’ simple for you,” he said. “You don’t know shit, do you?”

  I nodded. I really didn’t feel much like talking.

  “Then I’ll tell,” he went on. “It’s all about stayin’ alive and doing what you feel like doin’ without getting caught. You live. You die and there ain’t no God watchin’. You understand?”

  I nodded again.

  “Just because cowards like you say there’s somethin’ wrong with what I do, don’t make it wrong. It’s horse shit. If God didn’t want me doing what I do, he’d have nailed my ass to the shit house wall long time ago.”

  “I’m glad I’m being beaten by a brillant, if maniac philosopher,” I said, gasping at the end.

  “Wop,” he said, “for the last time, where is Beryl? Answer me fast. Answer me true or you’re goin’ to the hospital or worse. You read Studs Lonigan?”

  “No,” I gasped.

  “What I’m gonna do to you is in that book. Look for it if you live out the night.”

  I came up as quickly as I could and rammed my head into his face. He staggered back with a groan and I sank back down on the steps. I had intended to run for the DQ, but my legs weren’t on my side. Handford moved back toward me. It didn’t take much imagination to know what was about to happen.

  But it didn’t happen.

  A man came out from behind my car. Dwight Handford paused. The man took a few steps toward us. He was built like a wrestler, a short round wrestler. He was almost bald and he looked bored. He wore slacks, a sports jacket and a white shirt with no tie.

  “Walk away,” Handford said to the man.

  The man in the sports jacket moved closer.

  “This is between my wop friend and me,” Handford said. “A matter of filial responsibility. I heard that word on television. You like that word, wop? Filial.”

  Handford’s nose was bleeding, badly. He didn’t bother to hold it or try to stop the bleeding.

  “I’m Italian too,” said the new man. “And I don’t like people calling me names.”

  “Walk,” Handford said between his teeth.

  “You walk,” said the man. “You walk or I blow your goddamn head off.”

  There was a gun in his hand now.