Always Say Goodbye: A Lew Fonesca Mystery

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

Little Duke looked very patient. He held out his hand palm up. There was a thick gold band on one of his fingers. Lew reached into his back pocket and came up with Santoro’s appointment book. He handed it to Little Duke, who tapped the edge of the notebook on the table and opened it.

  “He didn’t have any appointments until ten,” Lew said. “We were gone by then.”

  “You didn’t have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “So what were you doing there?”

  “He was looking for me,” said Lew.

  “Why?” asked Little Duke.

  Franco’s eyes moved back and forth between the detective and his brother-in-law, amazed at Lew’s sleight of hand.

  “Hey,” said Franco, “we didn’t kill him—”

  “What’s in the book?” asked Little Duke, ignoring Franco.

  “Dinner and bar appointments with Bernard Aponte-Cruz,” Lew said. “Appointments with people, dinners, addresses and phone numbers of theaters, friends, restaurants, bars …”

  “Gay bars,” said Little Duke, sitting back.

  “I didn’t check—” Lew began.

  “I will, but we found enough from Santoro’s apartment town house to figure it out.”

  Franco wiped his chocolate fingers on a napkin.

  “Hey,” said Franco. “Let’s say Santoro wanted to break out of the relationship. Right. Aponte-Cruz is a hit man, right? People who hire him who are not exactly sympathetic to alternative lifestyles, right? Santoro threatens to expose him and—”

  Little Duke looked at Lew and said, “Bernard Aponte-Cruz was not a hit man. He was the security guard at the door of the Chelsea.”

  “The disco place,” said Franco.

  “Disco is as dead as Santoro,” said Little Duke. “The Chelsea’s the right-now hot spot, painful music, kids looking for drugs or sex they won’t find. Gays of both genders looking for sex which they will find, and Bernard Aponte-Cruz at the gate.”

  “Aponte-Cruz and Claude Santoro were queer with each other,” said Franco. “I mean they were lovers or something?”

  “Yes,” said Little Duke.

  “Him and his brother-in-Law? Okay,” tried Franco, rubbing his lower lip with a thick finger and coming up with, “Aponte-Cruz threatened to expose that Santoro was gay and—”

  “Exposure wouldn’t mean much to Santoro,” said Little Duke, looking out the window. “In this city, inside the Loop, it might bring him more business. Outside the Loop, a successful good-looking guy like Santoro, it would make him very popular.”

  Three men in their late teens or twenties saw him and hurried by.

  “Okay,” said Franco. “So Aponte-Cruz killed Santoro? You just go pick him up, right?”

  “Aponte-Cruz is dead,” Lew said.

  Little Duke drank some coffee and nodded.

  “Right. Aponte-Cruz was shot about four hours ago in his apartment,” said Little Duke. “No gun found. Bullets are 9 mm. Odds are it’s the same gun that was used on Santoro.”

  “Why?” asked Franco.

  Lew looked down and then met Little Duke’s eyes.

  “Maybe someone didn’t want Santoro to talk to me. Maybe someone who was responsible for my wife’s death.”

  “Possible,” said Little Duke.

  “Why are you on Santoro’s case?” Lew asked. “It’s not your district.”

  “I asked for the case,” said Little Duke. “People downtown behind desks owe me favors. I called one in. Claude Santoro was my wife’s brother, her only brother. We’ll forget about where I got this,” Little Duke said, tapping the appointment book inside his pocket. “One condition. You find anything, let me know.”

  Little Duke, got up from the booth and dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table.

  “Thanks,” Franco said.

  Little Duke, eyes still on Lew, nodded, walked to the door and went outside. The chatter level at the other booths and tables became louder.

  “You palmed the appointment book in Santoro’s office,” said Franco.

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re partners, Lewis.”

  “I thought you’d be better off not knowing,” said Lew. “You could say you never saw the appointment book, and you’d mean it.”

  “Lewis,” Franco said, shaking his head. “We’re family, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve gotta trust me a little here,” Franco said. “You know?”

  “I know,” said Lew.

  The limping waiter came to the booth, pocketed the twenty and asked if they were finished.

  “Cops pay for their food here?” asked Franco.

  “Some do,” said the waiter. “I’d pay Little Duke to eat all his meals here. Nobody messes with this place. All but the dumb ones, the really dumb ones. I can handle them. Anything else I can get you? On the house.”

  “Half a dozen donuts to go?” asked Franco.

  “Done,” said the man, who limped away.

  The tow truck was parked at the curb. A quartet of men was leaning against it, side by side. They were all in their twenties or thirties, all needing shaves, all with chins up, and all with Tshirts and attitudes, all of them black.

  Franco stepped up to the one blocking the passenger side door and politely said, “Pardon me.”

  “I don’t think so,” said the young man softly, meeting Franco’s eyes. “You are not pardoned, not for any fuckin’ thing you did, are doing, or will do for the rest of your motherfuckin’ life.”

  “We were with Little Duke,” Lew said.

  “I don’t see no Little Duke,” the man blocking the door said, looking around. “I don’t see no duke, baron, earl or king. I just see two white guys shitting their pants.”

  Franco shook his head and grinned.

  “You find this funny, chubby?” asked the man at the door.

  In answer, Franco handed Lew his bag of donuts, grabbed the man by the neck and hurled him toward the restaurant. The man had trouble keeping his balance, doing a trick dance to keep himself from falling. Two of the others against the truck cursed as they took an angry step toward Franco. Franco was ready, arms out. The man he had hurled was heading back to join the others.

  “Okay,” said the fourth young man, still leaning back against the truck. “That’ll do.”

  The three men facing Franco stopped.

  The fourth man, the one they had heeded, was short, teeth even, serious.

  “We were just having some fun,” the young man said. “No one has to get hurt either side and we don’t want a visit from Little Duke. Get back in your truck, thank your God, and play with your rosary on your way home.”

  Franco was breathing heavily now, leaning forward, arms at his sides, eyes moving back and forth from face to face. Franco wasn’t sure that he wanted to go.

  “Let’s go,” Lew said.

  Franco shook his head, lowered his arms, took the bag of donuts back from Lew and moved around to the driver’s side. Lew reached for the handle of the passenger side door. His eyes met those of the leader.

  “Eric Monroe,” Lew said.

  “No,” said the young man. “I’m his kid brother.”

  “You look just like Eric Monroe,” Lew said.

  Monroe let out a small laugh and turned his head.

  “You can tell black men apart?”

  “It’s what I do,” Lew said. “What’s your brother doing?”

  “Playing for some team in France, hanging on, signing autographs, playing first base now, getting older, saving nothing.”

  “He was good,” Lew said.

  “Telling me?” Monroe said, tapping the brim of Lew’s Cubs cap. “He was the best. Still pretty damned good, but—”

  Franco started the engine.

  Lew reached for the door.

  The young man gave him room to climb in.

  When he lifted his leg, the shot came. The first pop of a Fourth of July rocket. The bullet thudded into the door.

  The four men ran to the
wall of the Tender. Lew looked up.

  “Get your ass in that truck and get down” shouted Monroe. “Someone’s shooting at you.”

  Lew climbed in and closed the door. Franco hit the gas.

  As they pulled away, Lew saw an old woman across the street. She had a shopping bag in one hand. With the other she was pointing.

  “I saw him,” she shouted. “I saw the shooter, saw him clear as healthy piss. White man over by the alley, over there. Saw him.”

  Her voice drifted away.

  “Posno?” asked Franco as they drove.

  “Maybe.”

  “Who else wants you dead?”

  “Maybe the driver of the car that killed Catherine.”

  “Posno, right? Same thing,” said Franco.

  The phone buzzed as they hit Lake Shore Drive and headed south. Franco dug into the bag for a donut.

  “There’s a bullet hole in your door,” said Lew.

  “Damn. Toro can take care of that.”

  “Went through,” said Lew, looking at the hole.

  “Yeah,” said Franco. “What’re you gonna do? Shit happens.”

  The phone hummed.

  Lew ducked his head and reached down as Franco hit the speakerphone button and said, “Massaccio Towing.”

  Milt Holiger’s voice came on.

  “Lew?”

  “I’m here, Milt.”

  “Bank lead is a bust,” he said. “I went there. Santoro did do a lot of legal work for First Center. Estate settling, bequests, nothing involving Catherine, you. Dead end.”

  “Thanks, Milt,” Lew said, still with his head down. He and Catherine once had a small savings account in First Center.

  “I’m sorry. Anything else I can do?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Lew sat up as Milt Holiger signed off. In Lew’s hand were the mangled remains of a bullet. He showed it to Franco.

  “Is it 9 mm?”

  “I think so,” said Lew.

  On the way south, they passed a late-model blue Pontiac with its hood up and a man with his hands in his pockets watching the traffic move past. Franco pulled in front of the Pontiac, turned on his revolving light and said, “Gotta check.”

  He got out and called back to the man, “Need help?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Five minutes later, the Pontiac was being towed, the man was squeezed in next to Lew, and Franco was making arrangements to bring the car to a garage in Naperville.

  “Name’s Kerudjian, Theodore Kerudjian,” the man said. “I repair copy machines, business, home, whatever.”

  He handed Franco and Lew cards.

  “But what I really want to do is direct,” he said. No response.

  “That’s a joke,” said Kerudjian.

  “You know other ones?” asked Lew.

  “Sure, you want to hear some?”

  Kerudjian turned his head toward Lew. The man was probably in his late sixties, maybe he was seventy. He was short, baldness firmly established against a desperate island of gray hair.

  With enthusiasm and arm movement, laughing at his own timing and punch lines, Kerudjian told a string of jokes, pausing after each to say, “Funny, huh?”

  “It’s funny,” Franco agreed.

  Kerudjian looked at each of them. He had been the only one laughing.

  “You’re not laughing,” he said.

  Lew looked at the man whose surface of good humor had suddenly vanished. Without it, Kerudjian wore a look of defeat.

  “Lewie doesn’t laugh,” said Franco, “and I’m a little pissed right now. Somebody shot a hole in my truck. You see it?”

  “I didn’t know it was a bullet … .”

  “It was. It is,” said Franco. “Someone was trying to kill Lewie. He’s my sister’s brother.”

  “Lewie?”

  “Me.”

  “When … ?”

  “About half an hour ago,” Franco said.

  “This is a joke, right?” asked Kerudjian. “I tell a joke, you top me, right?”

  “No,” said Lew.

  Kerudjian smelled of distant garlic, ink, hints of sweat.

  No one spoke till they got to the garage. They dropped the car and the confused Kerudjian, who had given Franco a credit card to pay for the tow.

  “Not bad,” said Franco as they got back into the truck. “And I get a referral fee from Raphael. It’s a long tow to Naperville.”

  John Pappas never left his house. Never.

  This was, Pappas knew, in crisp, sharp contrast with Andrej Posnitki who was forever moving, flittering, following, threatening, maiming, killing and reciting secondhand poetry.

  Seated in the kitchen, Pappas, who had lived with Posno for years, could hear his former partner delivering a flat monotone recitation of a poem neither he nor Pappas understood.

  Everyone seated at the heavy, knife-scarred wooden table knew the truth about the siege that kept John Pappas in his house. His mother, Bernice; his sons, Stavros and Dimitri; and John himself knew that it really wasn’t fear of Posno that kept him inside the house.

  John Pappas was agoraphobic. It had started suddenly, on a Sunday morning while he was reading the Tribune at this table. Nothing particular seemed to have triggered it. He simply knew that he was afraid to go outside. There were ghosts out there, people he had killed. It didn’t matter if they were real ghosts or memory-conjured and imaginary. They were beyond the protection of his home. Even thinking about leaving the house started an undulating wave of anxiety that moved toward him, an invisible flow under the level of control and consciousness. To keep the ghosts away, and to keep Posno outside, Pappas simply stopped considering opening the door and stepping out.

  And he blamed Posno.

  Sipping his coffee as he chewed a grainy sliver of warm halavah his mother had finished this morning, John Pappas wondered if Posno was now afraid of being inside. It would be an almost Mother Goose irony.

  John Pappas didn’t go out.

  Posno didn’t come in.

  And so it was between them both

  They had much room to sin.

  “Irony,” Pappas said with a grin.

  “What, Pop?” asked Stavros, cocking his head to one side so he could clearly see his father with his remaining eye.

  “Nothing,” Pappas said. “Nothing.”

  Pappas knew too much about Posno. If the police or the State Attorney’s Office or Fonesca found Catherine Fonesca’s file, Posno would be done; John Pappas would be uncovered. Pappas could not, would not allow that to happen. Pappas had only once killed emotionally. All of the other times, including the stabbing of LeRoy Vincent, had been acts of pride and payment, displays of professionalism. The people who hired John Pappas knew and respected him. Pappas was a legend in the darkened dining rooms of those, like him, who gave little value to the lives of those outside their family.

  “We all die,” one of his clients, Mitch Dineboldt, had said. “You just make the inevitable happen sooner.”

  “We’re sorry,” said Dimitri, playing with powdered sugar between thumb and finger.

  “It’s all right,” said Pappas, reaching over to touch his younger son’s cheek and then looking at Stavros. “You?”

  Bernice Pappas sat back upright next to her son. Bernice was clean, hair neatly combed, wearing a dark dress and yellow sweater. She had been to church that morning, St. Adolphis Greek Orthodox Church. She had driven herself.

  “I think you should kill him,” she said.

  Her grandsons looked at her. Her son turned away.

  Stavros thought his grandmother was telling him and Dimitri to kill their father. Dimitri thought she was telling him to kill his brother. Pappas knew who she really meant.

  “Kill them both,” she said to her son.

  Now the brothers thought their grandmother was telling their father to kill his two sons.

  They feared their grandmother as much as they loved her baking. They knew what she had done with a kitchen knife.
Dimitri and Stavros Pappas also both knew that she was insane.

  “Your grandmother means Fonesca and Posno,” Pappas said with a sigh.

  “In the pay of others, to protect others, my son didn’t hesitate to kill,” she said. “Now to protect your family, yourself, you are a Popsicle.”

  Stavros and Dimitri had not lost their desire to escape, to get away, but it would have to wait. The brothers looked at each other. They both knew, understood, that the threat of Posno and the possibility that Fonesca might find the file were real.

  “Posno will die,” Pappas said.

  “And the nice Italian?” she asked.

  “Fonesca,” Stavros said.

  She nodded.

  “We wait till we’re sure he has that file or that he won’t find it,” said Pappas.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head and moving to the oven.

  “We wait,” said Pappas.

  Neither Dimitri nor Stavros had ever killed anyone, but their father, sitting benignly lost in thought as he drank thick, black coffee, had told them that he had never felt hesitation or guilt when he had “assassinated.”

  “Tonight,” said Beverly, getting up slowly, hand on the table to steady herself. “I’m making my lamb, couscous and peas. Soup will be a surprise.”

  Pappas wondered what Posno would be having for dinner and where he would be having it.

  Andrej Posnitki had a bowl of Vietnamese soup with noodles, vegetables and pieces of fish. He sat at the counter of the little storefront restaurant-grocery on Argyle off of Broadway. His was the only non-Asian face among the twenty-seven customers. He had a Kiran beer, no glass, and ate. The other customers talked quietly and occasionally looked his way.

  Posno had tucked a napkin under his collar. He ate seriously. He was more interested in quantity than quality, but he had limits and favorites. Pasta of any kind satisfied him, if there were enough of it. He ate the noodles slowly, carefully, noiselessly, wielding his chopsticks expertly to pluck out noodles, bits of fish and even tiny peas.

  Music was playing, generic Asian music, the same rippling strings, the same beat, that he heard in every Thai, Japanese or Chinese restaurant.

  He would kill Fonesca. The little wop would find that incriminating file of Catherine Fonesca’s and then he would kill him and then deal with Pappas. He and Pappas, the phony Greek, had never been friends, but they had been tenuous partners. And now Pappas wanted to protect himself, to let Posno take the blame for all that they had done. Pappas wanted to destroy him.