While we sat waiting next to a young black woman with two little girls who kept coughing and jiggling, Ames sat back and closed his eyes. I took the paperback copy of Lonsberg’s Plugged Nickels from my pocket and found Chapter Five to read the section Adele had told me to read. I was becoming an odd literary expert on bits and pieces of known and unknown works by Conrad Lonsberg. I read:
He knew something was just a bit tilted to one side from the moment Abel Terelli saw his child for the first time. On the outside the baby looked perfectly normal. The first burp even looked like a smile. But there was an imbalance Abel felt in the not ugly infant being held up by the smiling nurse. Did the nurse smile every time she held up a baby? How many times had this middle-aged nurse smiled at babies and fathers? Was it a real smile? Did the nurse feel that slight tilt inside the child that Abel sensed?
Abel looked at the baby again. No, the tilt, the lack of balance, lay behind those dark eyes that looked about trying to find something or someone on which to focus. They finally found the eyes of her father and Abel, whose imagination was admittedly undisciplined, was confirmed in his opinion that the living, pulsing parts of the baby were not normal.
“Is she all right?” he called to the nurse through the glass window.
“Perfect,” the nurse answered, looking down at the child.
Did the nurse have a checklist of responses? Was “perfect” the best?
Was “fine” something to worry about? What were the other possible answers? “Imperfect, not well, badly damaged.” This was the first day in what Abel Terelli felt, was sure, would be the beginning of that which was worse than a nightmare, the living with a worm of uncertainty that would grow.
Abel was an architect, a creator, a young success, with a beautiful wife, a dark-eyed beautiful child. Then why did the devil, Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, Belial, Mastema, the Prince of Darkness, the Lord of Lies, the Accuser, the Evil One, place this child before him? Or was it God testing him? Or was it, as was most likely, the fact that Abel Terelli was slowly, slowly, slowly growing mad?
“He’ll be fine,” came a voice breaking into my reading. I looked up at a male nurse with thin glasses and a shaved head dressed in hospital blues. Next to him stood Mickey who did not look fine to me. He didn’t look tilted like the infant of Abel Terelli, but “fine” was not a word I would have used.
Ames opened his eyes and immediately stood up. It reminded me of that great moment in The Magnificent Seven when James Coburn is sitting on the ground with his back to a post, his hat over his eyes, and he suddenly ruefully agrees after being goaded into proving that he is faster with his knife than his challenger with a gun. Quick, name all seven of the actors who played the magnificent seven, I thought as Ames rose. Ask me that one for a million dollars.
“Thanks,” I said as Ames put a hand under Mickey’s arm to hold him up.
One of the little coughing black girls looked up at me and coughed.
“The desk wants to go over payment again,” the nurse said apologetically. There was something about the nurse that made me think he was gay. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to worry about the hospital bills of this confused and broken kid.
I walked to the woman behind the desk. We had fished Mickey’s wallet out when we came in and were asked for insurance. Mickey had a Blue Cross/Blue Shield card in his father’s name with Mickey listed as insured.
“Just sign here,” the little woman in white behind the desk said.
I pushed the clipboard in front of Mickey and handed him the pen that went with it. He signed. We left.
“Do you have anything at home, your father’s place, that you have to pick up?” I asked.
“Yes, no. Some clothes. A little money hidden, you know. Other stuff. Most of my stuff is with Adele.”
“Your father home now?” I asked.
“He should be at work,” Mickey said.
“You meant it about not going back to live with him?” I asked.
“I meant it,” he said.
I looked at Ames who nodded and touched the revolver in his pocket. We headed down Bahia Vista past Mennonite churches and the huge Der Dutchman restaurant and just past McIntosh turned into Sherwood Forest and headed toward the cul-de-sac where Michael Merrymen lived and did battle against the world.
We didn’t make it all the way down the street. There were yellow police barricades up blocking the circle at the end of the cul-de-sac. Two police cars were parked just outside the barricade and one was inside the enclosure.
Outside of the Merrymen house three men were talking. Two of them were uniformed cops. One was Detective Ed Viviase. I considered just backing out, but Viviase’s eyes came up and took me in. He recognized the Taurus. He recognized Ames and he may even have seen Mickey in the backseat.
There was no choice. I parked. I suggested that Ames park his Buntline special or whatever it was under the front seat. He did and we got out. The three of us walked slowly between the barricades and headed for the house. Viviase, looking even more solid outdoors than in his office, looked up at the sun and then at us as he came forward to meet us.
“I believe in coincidence,” he said in greeting. “I really do. Seen plenty of it. But it’s not my first choice when I try to explain things. Fonesca, what are you doing here?”
“This is Mickey Merrymen,” I said. “He lives in there with his father.”
“Wrong tense,” said Viviase, looking at Mickey. “Sorry to tell you this, but your father is dead.”
“And the dog?” asked Mickey.
“Dead too. Sorry.”
“No,” said Mickey. “He won’t attack me when I go in and get my things.”
“You don’t seem surprised your father is dead,” Viviase said.
“I don’t care,” Mickey said. “Yes, I do. I feel… I don’t know the word?”
“Happy?” Viviase tried.
“Relieved,” I helped.
“Relieved,” said Mickey. “Yes, relieved. My father was crazy. When my mother died…”
“What happened to your face?” asked Viviase.
“His father beat him in my office,” I said.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Viviase said, looking at Ames who was blankly looking at the house. “When was this?”
“Three hours ago, something like that. I can pin it down if you need it,” I said.
“You with him all the time?” asked Viviase. “I mean since the fight of the century in your office?”
“Ames and I have been with him all the time. Took him to Sarasota Memorial ER,” I said.
“So, all three of you can account for each other’s time for the last three hours or so.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Michael Merrymen was shot about an hour ago,” said Viviase. “Care to guess about the cause of death?”
“Bullet. Nine-millimeter. Matches the bullet that killed Mickey’s grandfather and someone shot at me,” I said.
“We’ll know in a few hours but that sounds about right to me. Merrymen’s nose was smashed and he had a few other signs of getting the shit kicked out of him. That happen in your office?”
“I did it,” said Ames. “He was beating the boy. I did what had to be done.”
“Okay,” said Viviase, rubbing his hands together and looking at the sun again. “Anyone know the UV level today? I forgot my sunscreen.”
None of us knew.
“Okay,” Viviase repeated. “Let’s get back to those coincidences. If you and I are right about the bullet and the gun and you show up here about an hour after Junior Merrymen’s unloved gets shot, I’ve got to ask once again, ‘What is going on here, Fonesca?’”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“But you have some idea.”
“Ideas,” I created. “I suspect everyone but the four of us and I’m not so sure about you.”
“Okay,” he said, “we go another way. Someone kills Merrymen, his father-in-law, and takes a shot at yo
u. Merrymen’s son turns up in your office and so does his father. Vendetta against the Merrymen?”
“Don’t forget the dog,” I reminded him.
“Pit bull,” said Viviase. “People don’t like pit bulls.”
“People didn’t like Michael Merrymen,” I said.
“Everyone hated my father,” said Mickey. “Everyone who knew him.”
“I’ve looked at his record,” said Viviase. “We’re talking to the neighbors. I have a feeling we’ll wind up talking to half of Sarasota County before we’re finished unless…”
“Unless…” I repeated, knowing what was coming next.
“Unless you tell me what this killer is looking for?” he said. “Someone went through this house. Someone went through Bernard Corsello’s house. I’ve got a feeling whoever it is, is still out there looking. I have a feeling that you know what they are looking for. I have more than a feeling that I’m going to wind up arresting you for obstruction of justice and withholding evidence. It could be worse, your friend with the nine-millimeter might kill someone else and you’ll need a very good lawyer.”
“I’ve got one,” I said.
“Werring,” said Viviase with distaste. “You know how many times his firm has been investigated by the Bar Association for violations of everything from fixing juries to lying about jet lag?”
“I guess a lot,” I said. “But he’s a good lawyer.”
“I need my things,” Mickey said.
“Not for a few days,” said Viviase. “It just struck me. You’ve suddenly inherited both your grandfather’s and your father’s houses and who knows what else?”
“He was with us,” I repeated.
“Plenty of money to go around,” said Viviase, becoming irritated.
“Did either of them have money or own the houses?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” said Viviase. “Fonesca, I’m taking Merrymen Junior here. You and Wyatt Earp go away. One more person gets shot or shot at by whoever we’re looking for and you will not be a happy man.”
“Death doesn’t make me happy,” I said.
“I’m glad he’s dead,” said Mickey.
“Son, we have a lot of talking to do and I want to get out of the sun. Let’s go in the house and see if maybe you can tell us if something is missing?”
Then Viviase said, “I’ll let him call you when and if you can pick him up.”
Viviase turned his back on us and walked with Mickey at his side. Ames and I headed back for the Taurus. I stopped at the phone at the gas station at Beneva and Bee Ridge and called Lawrence Werring’s office and got his secretary. I told her I wanted to speak to Harvey. She told me I wanted to speak to Mr. Werring.
Werring came on almost immediately.
“Gone out of business, Fonesca?” he asked calmly.
“No,” I said.
“Good, then I have papers for you to serve on three people, today.”
I couldn’t afford to lose Werring’s business or Harvey so I said, “I’ll be right there.”
A hundred fifty dollars wouldn’t be bad either. Before I could ask Werring if he could transfer me to Harvey, he hung up. I called back. This time I was allowed to get through to Harvey.
“Lewis,” he said. “Challenge me.”
I told him what I wanted.
“Make it harder.”
“How about having it done in an hour?” I said.
“I accept the challenge,” he said.
We went back to my office, stopping at the DQ for burgers and fries. Dave asked if I wanted to finally try sailing next Saturday. Just a test to see if I might like it. Ames was also invited. We both turned him down politely and went up to my office.
Two messages on the machine.
The first was from Rubin, the Herald-Tribune reporter.
“Man named Merrymen was just found murdered,” he said. “His father-in-law was murdered, too. Merrymen’s son knows a girl named Adele Hanford. You had something to do with a case involving the death of a couple of people last year including Adele’s father. The same source who told me about the missing Lonsberg manuscripts called ten minutes ago. We’ll have a story tomorrow morning. You want to give me a call so we get it right? I’m planning to squeeze your name somewhere into it.”
Young man’s smart, I thought, and leaned back wanting to tell Ames to walk back to the Texas, wanting to unplug the phone, wanting to watch a western, an old one with John Wayne, Randolph Scott, Tim Holt, or “Wild” Bill Elliott, wanting to sleep without dreaming.
I pushed the button and got the second message. It was from Conrad Lonsberg. He didn’t give his name.
“Four o’clock, my house.”
Ames had finished his burger and was emptying a container of root beer.
“Feel like going for a ride?” I asked.
He nodded.
We went off to serve the papers. All were for the same case, a civil action about some property in Towles Park. Towles Park, not three blocks from where I lived, had been trying to make a comeback after years of being a small collection of ramshackle old houses. It was now an artist’s colony of sorts. The houses repaired and painted bright colors. Shingles over the doors with cute names, even a small restaurant I’d never been to. One of the houses that hadn’t made a comeback was the issue. I didn’t care.
The first two papers were delivered into the hands of the witnesses or litigants, I didn’t know which, within fifteen minutes. Number one was a waitress at the Sunrise Deli on Webber and Beneva. Number two was a Japanese cardiologist on Arlington. Number three had no address, wasn’t in the telephone book. Just the name, James Nuttley.
“Know him,” Ames said.
“Who is he?”
“Homeless, sometimes. Tried working at McDonald’s, Kentucky Fried, Burger King. All dumped him. Ed Fairing tried him as a bartender for a few days. You read Omar Khayyam?”
“Not recently,” I said as we drove east on Main Street.
“What does the vintner buy half so precious as that he sells,” Ames said.
“Nuttley drank more than he sold,” I said.
“Lasted two or three days. Ed gave him a few dollars and walked him out the door. Sun’s up, weather’s warm. Got a few places to try. Five Points first.”
I turned the car around and headed back to Five Points Park. A group of the homeless, a small group, heads down, were sitting on the grass across the street from the Golden Apple Dinner Theater. I slowed down.
“The one with his hands in his pockets,” said Ames.
I parked illegally, leaving Ames in the Taurus, and ran over to the small group. Nuttley looked up at me with clear eyes silently saying, “What’s the world going to do to me now?”
I handed the folded paper to the bewildered man and hurried back to the car where I filled in the form stating I had delivered all three of the papers.
We brought the form back to Werring’s office where his secretary prepared a check and took it in for the boss’s signature. She was back in less than a minute.
“New record,” she said.
“I got places to go and people to see,” I explained. “Starting with Harvey.”
Ames and I went down the corridor and into Harvey’s computer room. The counter next to him was lined with cans of Sprite.
“I did it in forty minutes,” he said, proudly handing me a brown clasped envelope. It felt as if it contained a magazine. “I can probably get more but I don’t know what it would be worth.”
“We’ll see after I read this,” I said.
“You just serve some papers?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Dinner at Michael’s at the Quay, Friday,” he said. “You pay. We can go early and catch the early bird specials.”
“If I’m in town,” I said.
“I’m bringing a date,” he said.
Harvey was a good-looking man and now a sober man. He had told me that he was staying away from women until he felt alcohol-safe. So either he di
d feel safe or he was taking a chance. Either way, I owed him. I would see if Sally was available.
“Use your phone?” I asked.
Harvey nodded and went back to his computer screen.
I got Sally at her desk after the fifth ring.
“Lew,” I said.
“She didn’t call,” she said. “I’m going to have to turn her in.”
“One more day,” I said. “I want to go over some things with you first. I’ve got an idea or something that resembles one. This evening?”
“I’ll probably be out on cases or in my office late tonight,” she said. “I’ve got a client and her kids with me right now.”
“It’s important,” I said.
“My office, seven o’clock,” she said and hung up.
I checked my watch. Just enough time to drop Ames back at the Texas, read what Harvey had dug up, and get to Lonsberg’s.
“Been a busy day,” I said to Ames when he stepped out of the car.
“You know where to find me,” he said.
I nodded and watched him go into the Texas. Then I opened the envelope Harvey had given to me and began to read. It didn’t take long. With the remains of Conrad Lonsberg’s two manuscripts and the envelope with the material from Harvey, I got some gas and headed toward Casey Key fairly sure of what was going on now, but needing Sally to fit one more piece together if she could. I needed the world’s foremost expert on Adele. Sally was it.
I got to Lonsberg’s five minutes late. There was a car parked near the gate, a blue Toyota a few years old. When I parked, a kid in jeans, a white shirt, and a blue blazer jumped out of the Toyota. A camera dangled around his neck. He ran like an athlete and looked like one, a young Paul Newman, but this guy had the nose of my uncle Guiliarmo, big, arched. It gave him the look of a preening bird.
“Fonesca?” he said when he approached, no sign of being out of breath.
“Rubin?” I guessed.
He nodded and took my picture before I could protest.
“Lewis Fonesca in front of Conrad Lonsberg’s house,” he said. “I’ve got enough. You want to give me a little more? Your explanation?”
“I’m a process server,” I said.
“And you’re serving all those papers under your arm to Conrad Lonsberg?”
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