Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

“I think I’ll just give your money back and continue to try to locate a reasonably sane world.”

  “Tomorrow at eight. Waffle Shop on 301,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

  I made one more call, to Dixie Cruise, and told her what I needed and what I would pay.

  “I’ll work on it tonight,” she said. “Call me after ten tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” I repeated and turned off the phone.

  Dixie was a waitress. She had just moved to the Appleby’s on Fruitville near I-75. Dixie was pert, energetic, in her thirties, and working online toward a business degree from the University of South Florida. Dixie was also a first-rate computer hacker with a small apartment in a 1920s apartment building on Ringling Boulevard.

  When Ames returned, Victor took one plain, Ames had a double chocolate, and I had a strawberry iced. We ate, drank decaf coffee, and said nothing for the rest of the evening.

  There was nothing to say.

  5

  *

  THE WAFFLE SHOP is on Washington, also known as State Road 301 or just 301 to the locals. The shop is just before the point where 301 meets Tamiami Trail, known as 41 to the locals. It’s across from a car dealership, half a block from a McDonald’s, and another block from Sarasota High School. It was also a five-minute walk from where I now resided. It didn’t feel right yet for me to say I “lived” there. It probably never would.

  The Waffle Shop is semi-famous. Elvis once stopped there. The sign outside says so. There’s a big poster of The King on the wall inside. He was a frequent topic of conversation.

  There were regulars at the shop, which looked like it belonged in the 1950s without trying to create the illusion. There was a wraparound counter with red leatherette-covered stools. There were tables against the walls by the windows where morning cops, hearse drivers, car salesmen, high school teachers, truckers and deliverymen, and all kinds of people just hung out.

  I sat on a stool and got a coffee from one of Gwen’s daughters, who served as hostesses, waitresses, and owners of the landmark.

  For an instant, as I looked at Elvis, I felt like a regular. I did not want to be a regular anywhere, but such things happen.

  “Carrots are bullshit,” said the old man who climbed up on the stool next to me.

  I knew him. He was a regular. His name was Tim—Tim from Steubenville. Tim said he was sixty, but he was closer to eighty and looked it. He lived in an assisted living home a short walk away at the end of Brother Geenen Way. He spent as much time as he could at Gwen’s, reading the newspaper, shaking his head, and trying to lure people into conversations about eliminating the income tax. Almost everything he said about income tax, abolishing drug laws, and eliminating gun laws ended with the punctuation, “damn government.”

  He always had a newspaper and commented on stories ranging from war and devastation around the world to cats and dogs waiting, hoping to be adopted before they had to be urged to pass away, making room for others to wait their turn.

  “Do animals have souls?” Tim asked, the blue veins undulating over his thin bones.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about carrots?”

  “Carrots don’t have souls,” I said.

  “What’s the matter with your Cubs?” Tim asked in one of his familiar dancing changes of subject.

  “They’re cursed,” I said as he was served his coffee and a slice of pineapple upside down cake.

  “I’ll drink to that,” he said, lifting his coffee mug and bringing it to his lips.

  “No,” I said.

  “I won’t drink to that?”

  “No,” I said. “Animals don’t have souls.”

  The coffee was hot. I could see the steam rising, feel the heat with my fingers through the porcelain mug. I hadn’t drunk any yet, even after adding milk from the miniature aluminum pitcher. My grizzled counter partner took no such precautions. He sipped, made an “uhh” sound to indicate he had made a mistake, and put the coffee down.

  “You do that all the time,” I said.

  “I do what?”

  “Add the milk and then remember that you don’t like it with milk.”

  “My problem,” he said. “Just like Jesse always said when she was living—that I don’t learn from my mistakes. I’m just doomed to keep repeating them. What about people? They have souls?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Cubs, here’s to you.”

  He raised his mug and drank more cautiously this time after having cooled down his coffee with the milk I had passed to him. He called me “Cubs” because of the Chicago Cubs cap I wore. I wore the cap for several reasons. First, it was a memento of my affection for the Cubs. Catherine had bought it at Wrigley Field one afternoon when she and I had taken the day off to catch a game with the Pirates. The Cubs had won 4-1. Catherine had bought it for me. I had put it on her head. She looked cute in it. It made her smile. Now she was dead and I wore the cap. Second, it covered my increasing baldness. It was not a receding hairline. It was a steady retreat. Vanity? Maybe. I didn’t take time to analyze it. Old bald men look younger in hats. They don’t necessarily look better. Men my age who wear baseball caps either look tough or would like to be thought of as athletic.

  Greg Legerman showed up. He was alone. I couldn’t tell if he was any more nervous than he always was, but he was sufficiently nervous to make the patrons uncomfortable. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved buttoned shirt with a collar. The shirt was green with yellow lines. He sat on the open stool to my right.

  The old man leaned forward to get a better look at Greg and said, “Young man, you think people have souls?”

  “Good question,” said Greg, avoiding my eyes.

  I thought serving this permanently wired kid coffee would not improve the coming conversation, but I was too late. Gwen’s daughter, the one with two kids, including a teenage boy who sometimes worked in the shop after school, put a mug of hot liquid in front of Greg and said, “Decaf. Breakfast?”

  “Waffles,” Greg said.

  She nodded and moved off. You ordered waffles here. You got waffles, butter, maple syrup. You didn’t get built-in blueberries or bananas or bacon bits. You didn’t get wheat or bran waffles. You got the old-fashioned kind. Just the way Elvis had eaten them half a century ago.

  “I can explain,” Greg said.

  “I’m sure you can,” I said.

  “I was just joking,” he said. “I do things like that for no reason. I get excited …”

  “Carrots are bullshit and so are you,” I said. “How did you know someone had shot at me?”

  “Everybody knew,” he said.

  “Everybody? The King of Jordan knew? Brad Pitt knew?”

  “Oh come on,” he said. “I mean …”

  “First you hire me to help Ronnie Gerall. Then you call me to warn me off. You think he did it.”

  “No, it’s just that I … it’s too dangerous.”

  “For who?”

  “I gave you five hundred dollars to find the real killer. I’ll give you five hundred dollars to stop looking.”

  He reached into his pocket and came up with a roll of bills wrapped in a thick rubber band, which he placed in front of me. I pushed it back and added to it the money he had given me the day before.

  “My teeth need fixing,” the old man said. “If neither one of you want that money …”

  Greg Legerman and I ignored him and looked at the money.

  “Leave it there,” said Gwen’s daughter as she placed the plate of waffles in front of Greg, “and it’ll be the biggest tip anyone ever left here.”

  “What about Elvis?” I asked.

  “His tip is legendary,” she said moving on.

  “Someone shot at me in a car and probably blinded the man with me,” I said. “Then someone shot a pellet into the back of a fourteen-year-old I’m responsible for. He could have died if he tumbled down my steps. It seems pretty likely that someone was trying to shoot me. I’m getting interest
ed in finding out who killed Philip Horvecki.”

  “Why’d they shoot at you?” asked the old man.

  “To scare me off.”

  “Please stop,” Greg said. “You could get killed.”

  “My therapist says I’m suicidal, only I’d never kill myself. I wouldn’t, however, object to someone else doing it for me.”

  “Why are you suicidal?” asked the old man with interest.

  “Because my wife was murdered and the killer was never arrested.”

  “Then go look for him, Cubs,” said Tim.

  “I know where he is.”

  “Where?”

  “Sleeping on the floor of the place I’m living in.”

  “You are a strange duck, Cubs. Kid, you think people have souls?” he asked again.

  This ignited Greg. “No definitive evidence,” he said. “Though research at universities in France, Germany, England, and the United States, including Princeton, is inconclusive, there seems to be evidence that electrical impulses …”

  “Greg,” I interrupted.

  “He’s just getting started,” said the old man.

  “I know. Who are you trying to protect?”

  Greg shook his head no.

  “Winn doesn’t know what you did, does he?”

  Greg shook his head again.

  “No. You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  “You don’t even like Ronnie,” he said. “No one does.”

  “He hasn’t been arrested because people don’t like him. He has been arrested for killing Philip Horvecki.”

  “Lots of people wanted to kill Horvecki,” Greg said, looking at his waffle.

  “Put the butter and syrup on ’em kid,” said the old man, “and whale away while they’re still hot.”

  There was an early morning breakfast hubbub in the Waffle Shop. All the stools and all the tables were full. Men in suits laughed at each other’s jokes. Men in work clothes talked softly and tended to concentrate on eating. The smell of waffles wafted, and Gwen’s daughters bustled. I put enough on the counter to cover my coffee and a tip and said, “I have work to do.”

  “Please,” said Greg. “Take the money. Stop looking.”

  He looked as if he were about to cry.

  “Don’t be a dumb shit, Fonesca. Take the money.”

  Greg nodded. I moved toward the door as the old man sidled over to sit next to Greg.

  I didn’t listen to find out if they were talking about the existence of the human soul, teeth in need of repair, or Elvis. I did have work to do.

  No one shot at me as I stepped out of the Waffle Shop. So far, it was a good day.

  I had the papers in the back pocket of my jeans. They stood up, scratched my lower back, and reminded me it was time for them to be served.

  My bicycle, which Ames had named “Steadfast,” was locked in a storage bin under my twenty-two stairs. I had a key. That made two keys in my pocket. One for my front door and one for the locker. Two keys too many.

  I rolled Steadfast into the street, adjusted my Cubs cap, pedaled to Laurel, and then made a right toward Pineapple. On Pineapple I turned left, went through downtown, and walked Steadfast across Fruitville Avenue when the light turned green. From there it was three minutes to the house I was looking for.

  It was, as all the houses in the neighborhood were, a small one-story cement-block building with long-dead orange siding. The slightly slanted roof was almost completely covered with leaves and pine cones from a big tree which looked as if its roots went right under the house. Grass, or what passes for it in Southern Florida, still fought a losing battle to live in the stony rubble of the front yard. A severely rusted pickup truck of unknown vintage stood next to the house.

  I walked up the narrow and cracked concrete path to the door. The day was already hot. I didn’t mind. The heat didn’t bother me. I didn’t sweat. Even the coldest mornings of winter in Chicago hadn’t affected me very much. When I was fifteen I had a mild case of frostbite from being out too long in subzero weather. I hadn’t felt cold, but even now I get occasional tingling at the top of my ears.

  I looked for a bell button. There was one. There was a badly rusted small door knocker. I decided against using it lest it fall off. I knocked.

  “Coming,” the high, almost child’s voice inside called.

  The door opened.

  Below me, head only about thigh high, stood a small black man of no clear age in jeans, a blue T-shirt, and a Cubs cap, though a more expensive one than mine.

  “Zo Hirsch?”

  “That’s right.”

  I handed him the folded order for him to appear at a divorce settlement hearing in the office of my lawyer client. I never deliver court orders or summonses in an envelope. I was supposed to deliver papers, and that I did.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  He muttered, looked at the papers I had just handed him, and shook his head.

  “Do I look like I can pay six hundred dollars a month?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Want a beer?” he asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Dr Pepper, Mountain Dew, Diet Pepsi?”

  “Diet Pepsi.”

  “Come in.”

  He stepped back. Had I reached down, I could have rested the palm of my hand on his head. I resisted the urge to do so.

  “This way,” he said.

  A few things struck me as we moved past the living room on the left and another room on the right, which must have been a dining room at one point, but was now a library filled with shelves and books. A desk stood near the front window which, if he had been sitting there, meant he would have seen me coming. Another thing that struck me was that everything looked immaculately clean. The furniture looked Arts & Crafts and the many framed photos on the walls were crisp, clear, and signed by Major League Baseball players. The other thing that struck me was that not one piece of furniture was a concession to Zo Hirsch’s size.

  “Sit or look around,” he said pointing to the living room.

  I examined some of the photographs while Zo Hirsch moved down the short corridor.

  There were photographs of Bobby Bonds, Deon Sanders, Andre Dawson, and even Sammy Sosa. All of the players on Zo Hirsch’s walls were black. He returned quickly with a can of Diet Pepsi in one hand and an Amstel Light in the other. He handed me the Pepsi. We sat.

  “You meet my wife?” he asked, after taking a long drink.

  “No.”

  He reached into his pocket awkwardly, took out his wallet, flipped it open, and handed it to me. The woman in the photograph looked of normal size, darkly Hispanic, and quite pretty. She was smiling. Her left arm was draped over the shoulder of Zo Hirsch, who was also smiling.

  “Pretty,” I said, handing back the wallet.

  “Fucking beautiful,” he said, accepting the wallet and stuffing it back in his pocket.

  “Cubs fan?” I said.

  He seemed puzzled and then got it. He touched the brim of his cap and pointed to mine.

  “Not especially,” he said. “Billy Williams gave me this one.”

  “Vintage,” I said.

  He shrugged and drank some more.

  “What happened to your face?” he asked.

  “Flying glass. Someone shot at me.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll ask when I find him. Nice collection,” I said looking around.

  “I make my living writing about baseball,” he said. “Mostly for Spanish language newspapers, magazines, and websites. My mother is Haitian. My father was a Jew from Cuba, a fisherman. He’s gone. They were both normal-sized, if you were wondering.”

  I had been wondering, but I said, “No.”

  He looked at the photos on the wall and said, “I’d rather be playing right field anywhere for half of what Emilio Vezquez is getting.”

  “Emilio Vezquez?”

  “The DoubleD level pitcher my wife walked off with who will never, never make it to the majors. You want
to know why?”

  He finished his beer and looked at the empty bottle as if it had betrayed him.

  “His fastball never hits ninety and he is scared shitless of line drives.”

  He sat back and took off his cap, a look of satisfaction on his face. He looked around the room at the photos of the men whose photographs surrounded him as if they had just applauded his observation.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, rising and placing my empty can on a coaster on the table between us. The coaster had a Cincinnati Reds logo on it.

  “Think you might forget I was home?” he said, holding up the papers I had served him. “I’ll have a check from a Dominican newspaper coming in a few days and I’ll be able to hire a lawyer.”

  “I don’t—” I began, but was cut off by the ringing of Zo Hirsch’s phone.

  “Hold on,” he said and moved to the library, where I heard him pick up the phone and say, “Yeah. Okay. Hold on.”

  He came back into the living room carrying a black phone, which he handed to me.

  “It’s for you,” he said.

  I took the phone and moved to the window, being careful that someone parked and watching wouldn’t be able to see me. No one knew I was at Zo Hirsch’s, not even the lawyer I was serving papers for. Conclusion: I had been followed here.

  “Fonesca,” I said.

  “You’re supposed to be working on the Horvecki murder.”

  The car parked across the street was familiar—a red Buick LeSabre. The window blown out by the BB had been replaced, but the left fender definitely needed work and the left front headlight was missing. Jeff Augustine’s right eye wasn’t missing but it sported a black eye patch. He held a cell phone to his ear.

  “You should be in bed,” I said.

  Zo Hirsch held up his empty beer bottle, inviting me to join him in a morning brew. I shook my head no. He shrugged and got another beer. Maybe a steady diet of bottled beer had contributed to the departure of Zo’s wife.

  “I can’t afford to be in bed,” Augustine said in that musical Robert Preston voice.

  “You ever play the Music Man?” I asked.

  “Yes, dinner theater. You want me to sing ‘Seventy-Six Trombones’?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “How’s the investigation going? Corkle wants to know.”