When I got to the Best Western hotel and found Beryl Tree’s room, I knocked.
“Who is it?”
“Lew Fonesca,” I said.
The door opened. A man stood before me with a gun in his hand.
4
The man with the gun was Ames McKinney. I’ve already told you about Ames. Tall, long white hair, grizzled, lean, brown and seventy-four years old. Ames was not supposed to bear arms. It was a right he had lost after using an ancient Remington Model 1895 revolver to kill his ex-partner in a duel.
The first time I met Ames was an hour after he called me the first week I moved into town. His Sam Elliott gruff voice had simply said, “You know a place called The Round-up. On 301, just up from Fruitville.”
“Yes,” I had said.
“Be there in half hour?”
“Yes.”
“Names McKinney. Lean, old, can’t miss me.”
The Round-Up was one of the many odd-ball restaurants in Sarasota, a town known more for its well-heeled tourists and wealthy retirees who lived on the offshore Keys than its cuisine. There are some good restaurants, and there is a hell of a lot of variety, including the Round-Up, which boasted on a red-on-white sign in the window, “The Best Chinese Tex-Mex in Florida.” Few challenged this claim, especially not the homeless who wandered past every day.
The Round-Up is gone now. Owner Round Harry was carrying too much weight. He died and the place was boarded up. Six months later it was and still is a shoe-repair and tailor shop run by a couple from Colombia who speak almost no English.
Restaurants come and go fast in this town. So does money.
Sarasota is rich, but even the rich need maids, supermarkets, police, firemen, tailor shops and shoes-tores. There is a middle class and a lower class in Sarasota and everyone, even the snowbirds, the well-to-do who came down only in the winter from as far north as Canada and as far east as Germany, knew it.
Parking was not rough in front of the Round-Up, not in the summer. Parking isn’t rough anywhere in Sarasota in the summer. There’s plenty of parking and no lines at the restaurants or movies.
The Round-Up wasn’t packed but it wasn’t empty and there was good reason. The food was cheap and spicy, the service fast, and no one hurried you out. You could nurse a beer or even an iced tea with a pitcher in front of you while you watched the Atlanta Braves on cable. The Round-Up was not a quiet place. Harry wheezed when he walked; the Braves game bellowed; drunks poured drinks for each other with shaking hands; and a pride of lawyers, sales managers, real estate dealers and knowing locals talked deals loud enough to be heard.
I spotted Ames McKinney in ten seconds, the time it took my eyes to adjust from the sun to the near darkness. The place wasn’t big but the tables weren’t jammed together. There was leg and elbow room and the smell of beer and something frying. The Round-Up had the universal look of a run-down bar and grill. The grizzled old man sat at a two-chair table in the corner, his back to the wall-Wild Bill covering himself from a sneak attack after drawing Aces and Eights.
He looked up at me from what looked like a plate of chop suey over nachos. I pegged his age at about ten degrees below the temperature outside. His hair was white and cut short. His eyes were light, probably blue-gray, and as I walked toward him I saw none of the telltale red or yellow in the whites that gave away the lifetime drinker.
“Fonesca,” I had said stopping in front of him.
He pushed his chair back and got up holding out his hand. His shirt was a red flannel with the sleeves rolled up and his jeans were faded but clean. I couldn’t see his feet but I was sure he was wearing boots.
“Ames McKinney,” he said, sounding more like George C. Scott than he had on the phone. “Anyone every tell you you look like that guy in the movies?”
“Charles Bronson,” I tried.
“Other guy,” he said. “Skinny sad guy. Don’t remember his name. Have a seat.”
I sat.
“Order something,” he said. “On me, no strings, no obligations. Food’s kinda nuts but it’s not bad.”
I nodded at Round Harry, who was sweating in spite of the almost cool air. He wiped his hands on his apron and shouted, “What’ll it be?”
“I’ll have what he’s having,” I shouted, pointing at Ames McKinney.
“Suit yourself,” Harry shouted and went about his business.
Ames McKinney wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and looked at me.
“I know people,” he said. “Mostly. Get it wrong sometimes.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Got your name from a lawyer in a bar,” he said ignoring me. “Not much choice. Small town. Could have had more choice in Bradenton, but I’m on one of those mopeds so I decided to stay cheap and local. Your listing was the smallest.”
“I appreciate your confidence,” I said.
“Don’t joke on me, Mr. Fonesca,” he said gently. “I’m country, but I’m no dolt. We can laugh together but not at each other. You can’t stop yourself then we can just have us a lunch, talk about the gators and the blue water and white sand and say good-bye.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m big city. Sometimes I don’t know when I’m doing it.”
“Apology accepted,” said McKinney, taking a bite of whatever it was Harry now placed in front of me in a steaming blue metal bowl along with a glass of dark beer.
“Special,” said Harry. “Mandarin Nacho Supreme.”
He departed and I looked at McKinney.
“You in a hurry?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“You gonna talk to me straight?”
“I’ll try,” I said, drinking some beer and looking down at the brown stuff in the bowl.
“How’s business?”
The Braves must have done something interesting. Harry and some of the customers groaned, and one shouted, “You see that?”
“Business is bad,” I said.
McKinney nodded.
“Then you got time to concentrate on what I’m gonna give you.”
“Depends on what it is,” I said.
“How old you, Mr. Fonesca?”
“Call me Lew,” I said. “I’m forty-one.”
“Your people? Italian? Mex?”
“Italian.”
He nodded and ate some more.
“You a good man?”
I shrugged.
“No, but I’m an honest one. I can prove it. You can see my office.”
“Lots of crooks are broke,” he said. “They just don’t know how to do thievin’ right. But I believe you,” he said, wiping the bottom of his plate with a wad of sourdough bread.
“Thanks,” I said. “What is it you want me to do?”
What he wanted was for me to find his former partner, a man named Amos Sprague, who Ames had tracked to Sarasota.
“I tracked him slow through a sister of his in Yuma, a dentist he went to in Truckee, a car dealer he bought a Dodge pickup from in Texarkana,” Ames had explained. “Got him down to here. Lost him. Need some help.”
“Can I ask why you’ve spent a year looking for Amos Sprague?”
Some business guys at the table behind me let out a whoop of laughter. One of them started to choke.
“We were partners, cattle. Hard work, but it pays if you know what you’re doin’,” said McKinney. “Amos took the money out of our joint account on a Saturday afternoon and took off in the company truck.”
“How much did he take off with?”
“A million and four hundred thousand dollars even. He left eighteen hundred in the bank. Bought a motor scooter and been livin’ on the rest since.”
“And you want your money back?” I asked.
“I want Amos Sprague dead,” he said. “I can’t live dignified or die justified with this unfinished between us.”
“So I find Amos Sprague and tell him to give you your money back or…”
“Tell me where he is and I shoot him between the eyes.”
> “Seems simple enough,” I said. “My fee is…”
“Contingency and some cash out flat,” said McKinney.
“I don’t…”
“I’ve got a little over five hundred to my name. I’ll give you half and a week. You can’t find him in a week I get me a job and raise enough to find someone who can. You find him and get the money back and I give you twenty thousand. Simple as that.”
“Fair enough,” I said toasting him with what remained of my beer. “What can you give me on Sprague?”
He had given me enough to find Sprague, who had a new name, new wife, new teeth and a reputation for philanthropy. I found him and made the mistake of telling Ames. The two old men had an old-fashioned duel on the beach. I had arrived in time to watch it and testify later that Sprague had pulled his gun and fired first.
Ames had decided to stay in Sarasota. I guess he was my best friend.
I stepped in and Ames closed and locked the door behind me.
Beryl Tree was sitting in the straight-backed chair that went with the small desk near the window. The chair was beyond the bed near the bathroom. The window drapes were closed and only one small lamp over the bed was on.
Beryl Tree had her hands folded in her lap.
“He called,” she said.
“Ames called you?”
“No, Dwight. Called. Said if I didn’t get out and stop lookin’ for Adele, he’d come and kill me. He knows you’re lookin’ for him too. Told me to tell you to stop.”
She touched the bruise on her face.
I moved over to the bed, sat and faced her. She was holding on, sitting straight, but there was a catch in her voice and her eyes were focused on some distant thought on a far-away planet. If she started rocking, I knew she would be in real trouble.
“How did he know where you were?” I asked, reaching over to touch her hand.
When she felt my fingers, she came back to earth, almost, and looked at me as if she were trying to remember who I was.
“Remember I told you I saw him at the Waffle House across the street? He followed me, watched me go into this room. After he called, I called your number. Mr. McKinney answered. I guess I sounded… he asked what was wrong, said he was your friend. I told him and…”
“I was fixing your air conditioner,” Ames said, holding the gun at his side. It looked like the one with which he had shot his partner, a gun right out of a Randolph Scott western. “Tryin’ to anyway.”
“They could send you back for carrying that gun,” I said.
“Not much choice, was there,” he said.
“Maybe not,” I agreed.
“Borrowed it from Ed. He’s got a collection,” said Ames.
Ed Fairing owned the Texas Bar and Grill on Second Street off of downtown. The Texas was not a place where you’d find snowbirds, retirees and people with money. You would find great hot chili and good thick burgers, both with enough fat to kill a long-distance runner and enough taste to lure a vegetarian. Ames had a small room behind the kitchen. In exchange for room and board and a minimal salary, Ames kept the Texas clean and swept. Ames had once been more than a millionaire, but he was content with his job. It gave him plenty of time to think, read the Bible and do odd jobs for me from time to time on his motor scooter. Ames had also become a great source of information. People liked to talk to the tall, quiet man, and the people who came into the Texas often had interesting things to talk about.
“Ever hear of Dwight Handford?” I asked Ames.
Ames thought for a moment and then said,
“From Ms. Tree’s description, I think maybe he came into the Texas about three or four months back. Drunk. Tried to start a fight with a tomato picker named Seranas, skinny little fella minding his business. Ed threw this guy out who mighta been Handford.”
When Ed threw someone out, it wasn’t figurative. Ed Fairing had played two years for the Dallas Cowboys. Never a starter. Popped a knee. Gained some weight. Lost some weight and moved to Sarasota, where he had relatives. With the few thousand dollars he had left, Ed had bought the bar and made a living serving as his own cook and bartender. Ed still topped 300 pounds and never lost his temper.
“Think you could ask some questions?” I asked.
Ames nodded.
“Think you can get that gun back to Ed fast?”
Ames nodded again.
“I’m not goin’,” said Beryl Tree.
“And I’m not going to stop looking for Adele. But we can get you somewhere safer.”
“That’ll be fine,” she said.
“Okay. Pack your things.”
“They’re packed.”
“Pay your bill.”
“Already did. I knew I couldn’t stay here.”
“Good. Then I’ll take you to the place Ames lives and works, the Texas Grill. You’ll be safe there. I’ve got a stop to make then. After that I’ll pick you up and we we’ll go see a lady who might be able to tell us how to find your daughter.”
I got up and put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at me.
“I’m not going without Adele.”
“I know.”
“Be careful of Dwight.”
“I will.”
I looked at Ames, who nodded in understanding, tucked the gun into the pocket of his loose-fitting faded jeans, draped his blue, equally loose shirt over the weapon and moved to the window. He pulled the drapes open just enough so he could see outside and said, “Looks okay.”
Ames went first. I was sure that if Dwight Handford appeared he would get the surprise of his less-than-savory life. I hoped he didn’t appear. I didn’t want Ames ending his life in prison.
I picked up Beryl Tree’s suitcase. It wasn’t heavy. She got up from the chair and followed Ames through the door with me behind. Ames stood watch while I pulled open the door of the Metro for Beryl Tree and dropped the suitcase on the backseat.
“See you at the Texas,” I told Ames. “You fix the air conditioner?”
“Got to get some parts. Might be cheaper to buy an old one or a used one,” he said.
“Might be,” I agreed. “Meet you at the Texas in a few minutes.”
Beryl and I didn’t talk as I drove up 301, turned left on Main and then made a right on Lemon to Second Street. We got to the Texas before Ames, but he wasn’t far behind. He parked his scooter next to me. There were plenty of spaces. Parking was no problem in Sarasota, even in tourist season.
“Ames’ll take care of you,” I said, handing him her suitcase.
“I’ve taken care of myself my whole life,” she said. “I don’t see that changing.”
“You like chili, good burgers?” I asked.
“I’ve served enough of ’em to know the good from the bad.”
“Try Ed’s and we’ll talk later.”
I got back in the Metro but before I could close the door Beryl Tree said, “You need more money?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “You’re way ahead on retainer.”
“And I get an itemized bill when you find Adele.”
“To the last penny,” I said.
I left them standing on the sidewalk and drove the five blocks to the office of Geoffrey Green, Psychiatrist. I made it with ten minutes to spare.
There was a space in front of Carigulo’s Restaurant between a green Saab and a blue Rolls-Royce. The Rolls had a For Sale sign in the window.
The narrow passageway between Golden Fleece Antiques and Robintine’s Fine Oriental Rugs and Carpets led to a brightly tiled, small, open courtyard with a bubbling fountain in the center. To the right of the fountain was a large wooden door with a golden handle. The sign next to the door said FERGUS amp; SONS. I wondered what Fergus and his sons did and how they paid the rent. To the left of the fountain was a similar door marked GEOFFREY GREEN, M.D., PH.D. I opened the door and found myself in a carpeted waiting room twice the size of the two rooms I worked and lived in. A sliding glass window stood open in front of me. I told the matronly receptionist who I
was and she asked me to have a seat. The only other person in the large green-carpeted waiting room was a nervous young woman, about twenty, who hadn’t done much to look her best. Her hair was short and dark. Her brown skirt didn’t really go with her gray blouse. She ruffled through a magazine, looked up at the clock on the wall and over at a tank of colorful tropical fish and then back at her magazine. I was halfway through an article about Clint Eastwood in Entertainment magazine when Green’s office door opened and he stepped out. There was no one with him. If he had a patient, the patient had gone discreetly out another door.
Geoffrey Green was in his late thirties. He wore a dark suit, had dark hair and was ruggedly good-looking. I’d bet he climbed mountains or skied when he wasn’t tending to his patients.
“I’ll be with you in a few minutes, Dorothy,” he said to the nervous woman, who nodded, frowning.
“Mr. Fonesca?” he said, looking at me. “Please come in.”
I followed him into his office. He opened his drapes and let in the sun and a view of a very small, lush garden and a colorful tiled wall.
The office wasn’t large compared to the waiting room, but it would do. There was a desk, a chair, a small sofa and two armchairs. The colors were all subdued blues with a touch of gold. A painting on the wall showed a woman standing on a hill looking into a valley beyond the ruins of a castle. Her face wasn’t visible.
“Like it?” Green asked, sitting behind his desk and offering me the choice of couch or one of the chairs. I took a chair.
“The painting? Yes,” I said.
“One of my patients did it,” he said. “An artist. A man. We spent a lot of time talking about that painting.”
“It’s…” I said.
“Gothic, haunting,” he said. “Yes.”
“I was going to say melancholy.”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Mr. Fonesca, but I’m going to have to get right to your questions. I have a patient waiting.”
“I understand. Melanie Lennell Sebastian…”
“I can’t give you any information about why she was seeing me or what was said,” he said softly.
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