Retribution lf-2

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  He took the bill and smiled.

  “There’s a condition,” I said. “You rent a real bed, at least for tonight. Know anyplace?”

  “For five dollars?” he asked. “There are crevices of this city of sun and beautiful beaches where hidden people for two dollars a night provide cots and dubious company. I have a friend who lives beneath a stone bench right on Bayfront Park. His head rests on his guitar and the police leave him alone. For fifty cents, he will move over and share his musical pillow.”

  “A roof, Digger,” I said, opening the envelope.

  “Then Lilla’s it shall be,” he said, his head lolling. “A refreshing walk in the evening, a cot, and conversation. Life goes on but the pace is so slow.”

  “I agree,” I said as he staggered out the door and closed it behind him.

  The four-folded unlined sheet of paper in front of me was written in the same block letters as the first one left by Digger’s monk:

  YOU CAN’T BRING BACK THE DEAD. LET THEM REST. YOU CAN ONLY MAKE IT WORSE.

  That was it. I have been threatened by pimps, muggers, cops-crooked and otherwise-goons, loons, and the completely mad. This note read less like a threat than a warning, a warning that something bad could come out of the box if I opened it any wider and looked in.

  I called Sally. Her son Michael answered.

  “It’s Lew. Your mom home?”

  “Yeah, you ever have zits?”

  “Yes,” I said. “When I was about your age. Also boils. Two on my neck. Had to be lanced. Hurt like hell.”

  “I don’t have boils,” Michael said.

  “I know. I was trying to make you feel better,” I said. “I understand they have all kinds of things for pimples. Over the counter.”

  “They don’t work,” said Michael.

  “Soap, water, prayer, and the passage of time,” I said.

  “Shit,” he said. “I thought you might be able to come up with something. You know, like some old Italian remedy. Italian kids don’t seem to get it as bad as Jewish kids.”

  “I always thought it was the other way around.”

  “Here’s my mother.”

  I heard the clinking of the phone being passed and heard Sally say, “Lew?”

  “Yes, Michael and I were just bonding philosophically over adolescent pimples.”

  “Adele called,” she said. “Not long ago. Michael just went back in his room. I think the pimple talk was a result of talking to Adele. He’s got a crush on her. God, I’m doing more than showing my age. ‘Crush.’ They must have a better word for it now, or at least a more graphic one.”

  “Adele has that affect on men and boys,” I said.

  “She told me she was all right and that she planned to continue to burn Lonsberg’s manuscripts. She asked me to tell her how much trouble she was really in.”

  “And you told her?” I asked.

  “Can’t lie to them, Lew. Once they catch me in a lie they never believe me again. I told her Lonsberg wanted the manuscripts back, of course, but I also told her I didn’t think he’d be going to the police about them. She had already figured that one out. I told her she had to go back to Flo’s or she was subject at worst to criminal charges or to placement in another foster home. She asked me if I’d do that.”

  “And you said ‘no.’”

  “I said ‘no.’ Where could I place a sixteen-year-old former prostitute? The possibilities are few. Flo is perfect for her. So, I asked her about Mickey Merrymen and his grandfather. She said they had gone to his house, found his body, grabbed a few things, and left. She wasn’t lying, Lew.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “You mean would I put my life on the line for it? No, but I believe her. I told her the police were certainly looking for Mickey.”

  “So?”

  “She’s angry,” Sally said. “She’s determined. All she would say is ‘He’s going to suffer for every page.’ Then she hung up. Hold it.” Sally put her hand over the mouthpiece but I could hear her call out, “Susan, did you shampoo? That was one quick shower… No, I’m not calling you a liar. It’s a matter of degree and intensity. I’m sure your hair is wet and has just had at least a passing acquaintance with shampoo. I’ll check.” Then back on the phone with me. “Lew, I can cover Adele for a few days, even that’s taking a chance. I’ll file a report that she may be missing. The report will stay buried on my overburdened desk for a few days, no more. Find her.”

  “Sunday?” I asked. “Can you get away for a movie?”

  “I can get away if I bribe Michael and Susan with a Scream 3 tape from Blockbuster and a sausage pizza.”

  “Seven?”

  “Check the show times,” she said.

  We hung up. That left Dorsey to call. I dialed. The voice came on before the first ring had ended.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Lew Fonesca,” I said.

  “My wife is out,” he said. “She’ll be back soon. So this has to be fast. I talk to Charlie once or twice a year. He always calls me, never tells me where he is, but…”

  “Caller ID,” I guessed.

  “Yes,” Clark Dorsey said as if he had just betrayed his brother, which was probably just what he was thinking.

  “Vera Lynn is alive?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I don’t know much. He just says, ‘Clark, are you okay?’ I say, ‘I’m fine.’ He says he’s fine though he doesn’t sound it. And then he hangs up. That’s it. He sounds worse each time we talk. We’re brothers. We were close. Now… I think he needs help.”

  “What number did he call from?” I asked, reaching for an envelope and a blunt pencil.

  “I called it back,” he said, giving me the number. “It was a phone booth in a rib house someplace not far from Macon, Georgia, called Vanaloosa. A man with a black accent answered, said there were no white people around that neighborhood. Charles must have picked out the phone so I couldn’t find him. Maybe you can. He sounded like… he sounded like. I can’t explain it. Like he was dead and going through the motions. My brother was tough, Fonesca. Big, tough, smart. I don’t know if you can resurrect the near dead. My wife thinks what happened to Charles is responsible for our… well, responsible for what we are. But he’s my brother.”

  “I’ll try to find him. How’s the house coming?”

  “I bought new lumber like your friend suggested. I’ll even out the walls, but the house doesn’t seem to care. It just grows, section by section, each room holding less and less.”

  “Ever think of seeing a shrink?” I asked.

  “I don’t believe in it,” he said.

  “I see a shrink,” I said. “Good one. I think she’d see you. You might want to give it a try.”

  “My wife would like it,” he said flatly. “But I’m not sure I want to be anything else than I am.”

  “I know. You get used to it,” I said. “Then it’s hard to give up the pain.”

  “Yes, I guess. How do you know?”

  “You build more rooms. I crawl back into smaller ones,” I said. “I don’t like talking about it.”

  “I know,” he said. “Give me your shrink’s name. And let me know if you find Charlie and Vera Lynn. I’ll pay whatever…”

  “I’ve already got a client,” I said.

  “Marvin,” he said.

  “What does he want with his sister after all this time?” Dorsey asked.

  “Maybe I’ll find out,” I said.

  We hung up. That left Marvin Uliaks and Conrad Lonsberg to see in the morning. I checked my face in the mirror of my small back room. The mark of Bubbles Dreemer seemed to be gone. I shaved with the electric so I could be sure. It was gone.

  I went out the door. It was raining. The DQ lights were out. All the lights on the street I could see from the railing were out. Cars swooshed and splashed down 301. No one walked the rainy night, not even a floating monk.

  Digger had said he was going to get a cot, but I remembered he had a crevice or a stone bench in Bayfront Pa
rk. He might be in the washroom thirty feet away. I couldn’t take another conversation with Digger, probably couldn’t take one with anyone else.

  I held my cup over the railing into the rain, caught enough to brush my teeth and rinse and spit into the night.

  I love the rain. I love heavy rain that isolates, keeps people away, sets up a wall if not of silence at least of steadiness. The sound of rain always helps me to sleep. I went back in, locked the door, moved to my room, got undressed, put on fresh underwear, and popped a tape into the VCR cutting off CNN showing people clinging to the tops of trees in a flood somewhere in Africa.

  The movie came on. I’d picked it up for three dollars on the third floor of the Main Street Book Store. It was A Stolen Life with Bette Davis. Made a good double feature with Dead Ringer, both about Davis playing a twin who takes the place of her evil sister. It wasn’t Crawford in Rain but it would do. The problem was that the film, while in English, had subtitles in Spanish. I ignored the subtitles and watched. Dane Clark was an artist saying something to the good Bette Davis. I dozed to the sound of rain and woke up to see two Bette Davises on a small boat in a storm. The rain continued to tell me to sleep. I did.

  8

  The rain had stopped. That I knew before I opened my eyes in the morning. I also knew I hadn’t turned off the VCR. The sound of static crackled like burning paper. When I opened my eyes, I found a face looking down into mine. I shot up and cracked foreheads with Marvin Uliaks.

  “Oww,” he groaned, putting his hand on his forehead and stepping back.

  I had a sudden headache from the impact, but no permanent damage.

  Was Bubbles Dreemer standing in line in my office to take another crack at me?

  “How did you get in?” I asked.

  Marvin looked at his hand for signs of blood. There were none.

  “Window,” he said. “Lock doesn’t work.”

  “How long were you standing there?” I asked, sitting up and holding my head in both hands.

  “Awhile,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you. You find Vera Lynn yet?”

  “I told you I’d let you know, Marvin,” I said with irritation.

  “I just thought…” he started. “You need more money?”

  “No,” I said. “I do have a lead.”

  “A lead?”

  “Some information on how I might find her, where she might be. Marvin, I don’t think she wants to be found.”

  “I have to talk to her,” he said, playing with his hands. It looked as if he were washing them in imaginary water.

  “Okay,” I said. “But the deal is clear. I find her. Tell her you want to talk to her and she does what she wants to do. If she has a message, I’ll bring it.”

  “I have to talk to Vera Lynn,” he said. “Myself. I have to. I have to give her something. Something she needs.”

  “What?”

  He shook his head “no” and reached into his pockets pulling out money.

  “Here,” he said. “Use it. Find her. Tell her.”

  He dropped money on the cot. I reached up and stopped him by grabbing his wrists.

  “No more, Marvin,” I said. “I have enough. I’ll use this and that’s it.”

  “That’s it,” Marvin repeated, stuffing money back into his pockets. “Cross my heart.” Which he did. “Hope to die.” Which he did not.

  “Now if you’d just go to work or wherever you might be going this morning, I’ll get up and get to work finding Vera Lynn.”

  “I’m going. Beauty shop cleanup,” he said. “Then… I forget. I’ll remember. Sometimes I remember five years ago, twenty-five years ago better than yesterday.”

  “I do the same,” I said.

  “You do?”

  “I thought maybe I was getting a little crazy. I know I’m not smart but I never thought I was crazy.”

  “You’re not. I’ll get back to you.”

  He left. This time through the front door. I gathered the bills he had dumped on my bed. I flattened out the crumpled ones and sorted them. He had dropped almost three hundred dollars. I pocketed them, checked the clock. It was a few minutes after six.

  I put on my shorts and a Sarasota French Film Festival T-shirt, grabbed my helmet, and wheeled my bike out the doors and bumped it gently down the stairwell.

  I was starting to get on the bike when Dave stepped out of the back door of the DQ, a broom in his hand. He looked more prepared for a day fighting marlins than dishing out shakes and burgers.

  “Found something for you on the order counter this morning. Addressed to you,” he said.

  He leaned the broom against the white wall, went back into the DQ, and emerged with a box. The box was gray and wet. “ FONESCA ” was printed on the box in all black capital letters.

  I opened the soggy package and found a thick manuscript. The top page was clearly typed, Whispering Love, a novel by Conrad Lonsberg. There was a clear signature. The date typed at the bottom was May 12, 1990. I lifted the soggy page while Dave stood over my shoulder.

  The next pages and all that followed were soaked, the words on them running and undecipherable. The manuscript was ruined.

  “She has imagination,” I said. “Burning, shredding, soaking.”

  “The possibilities aren’t endless,” Dave said.

  “But there may be enough.”

  “What’s going on?” he said.

  I told him.

  “People,” he said.

  “People,” I agreed, tucking the soggy box under my arm.

  “I prefer fish and the Gulf waters,” he said.

  I wasn’t much for fish or the Gulf waters, but I knew what he meant.

  “You think about that trip,” said Dave. “We could probably rig a VCR. When I run out of things to do, I could come down to the cabin and watch you looking the way you look now.”

  “Haven’t had time to think about it more,” I said. “I’ll get back to you but don’t count on me.”

  “I count only on David,” he said.

  After I’d brought the useless manuscript to my office and placed it on my desk, I went back to my bike and pedaled the few blocks to the Y.M.C.A., my single extravagance.

  I went through the cycle of machines with the others who hurried through so they could shower, put on their suits, and be at their shops or desks or in uniform and possibly even have something to eat before they did what they had to do. It was less crowded today than usual. That’s the way it was on Saturdays. That’s the way I liked it. I liked swimming alone in the pool, slow, side stroke, on my back, a crawl once in a while, and then a hot shower and bike ride back.

  No matter how much I worked out, I didn’t seem to look any different, to gain or lose weight. Lew Fonesca’s body was intact and healthy. It was his mind that needed a workout. That was the workout I didn’t like. Working out was a meditation the way Sunday services used to be for me when I was a kid going to church. No thought. None expected or seen. It was the solitude not the lure of taut muscle or the healthy aerobic heartbeat that drew me.

  I got a cheese sandwich with bacon from Dave when I got back to the DQ and then went up with my gym bag and changed into clean clothes. There was no message on the machine. Too early. Fine.

  I had Conrad Lonsberg to face. I grabbed the soggy box of manuscript and the bag of shredded story, and the cover pages of the three manuscripts Adele had destroyed, put the cover pages in a brown paper envelope, and drove a few blocks over to the EZ Economy Car Rental Agency. Fred, the older guy, was there alone opening the door.

  “Done,” he said.

  “Trading up,” I answered. “I need something that’ll get me to Vanaloosa, Georgia, just outside of Macon, and back without a problem.”

  “Fly,” he suggested.

  “I don’t fly,” I said. “I think I told you that.”

  “Must have been Al you told. Okay,” he said. “We’ll see what we’ve got for the trip up south. I understand they have a restaurant in Macon, best fried chicken
in the country. Can’t remember the name.”

  “Maybe I’ll look for it,” I said.

  I checked my watch. I was about half an hour from facing Conrad Lonsberg.

  The ride to Casey Key in the black ‘96 Ford Taurus was fast. You would think the tourists would be out on weekends along with the full-time working residents of the Gulf Coast, but they didn’t seem to be, not this morning. The sky was slightly overcast but the weatherman on Channel 40 had promised there would be no significant rain. He had the Doppler to prove it, but not the confidence. Doppler and radar had been wrong too often in Florida.

  If he were one hundred percent certain it would rain, he would give the rain chance at thirty percent. If he were one hundred percent sure it wouldn’t rain, he’d give the rain chance at thirty percent. If you were looking out your window and it was raining, he would say there was a fifty percent chance of rain.

  It was cloudy. There was distant rumbling in the sky. No rain. Not yet. Maybe not at all.

  I pulled up next to Lonsberg’s gate, got out of the car, brown paper envelope under my arm, and pushed the button.

  “Who?” came the electric crackling voice of Conrad Lonsberg over the speaker.

  “Fonesca,” I said, looking up at the camera.

  “Wait,” he answered.

  I waited. The sky was growing darker. I heard his footsteps and the panting of Jefferson on the other side of the gate after about two minutes and then the gate opened. Lonsberg was wearing a pair of taupe chinos today with a short-sleeved gray knit pullover.

  Jefferson was wearing a look of eager suspicion.

  Lonsberg nodded me in. Jefferson stalked toward me as Lonsberg closed and locked the heavy gate. Jefferson was close, looking up at me and making a sound in his throat I didn’t like.

  “I think he’s considering tearing off my arm,” I said, looking down at the dog.

  “Jefferson’s mostly show,” said Lonsberg flatly. “He knows how to bark like fury, growl like a bear, and show his teeth like a cheap textbook drawing of a saber-toothed tiger.”