8
*
YOU JUST HAPPENED to see me hiding here behind the fiction,” I whispered.
He was wearing a pair of dark corduroy slacks and a short-sleeved green and white striped polo shirt.
“I … I followed you.”
“From where?”
“You’re going to get angry,” he said. “It can’t be helped. We’re talking about my life here.”
He looked over his shoulder and out the window and gently bit his lower lip.
“You’re talking,” I said. “I’m listening.”
“I put an electronic tracer under the rear fender of your bicycle,” he said. “I removed it before I came in. They’re really cheap now. You can get them online.”
He held up both hands in a gesture designed to stop me from rising in indignation. I didn’t rise. I wasn’t indignant.
“I was afraid you didn’t believe me when we talked in the park.”
“I didn’t,” I said.
“I do lie a lot. People always say you should tell kids the truth; you shouldn’t lie to them. But there are truths you want to keep from children. There are truths they are better off without. What are you reading?”
A thin woman with wild hair came down the aisle perpendicular to us carrying a load of books she wouldn’t be able to read in a generation. The books at the top and in the middle of the pile threatened to fall. Blue Berrigan was silent until the woman rounded the corner, went up the next aisle, pulled out two more books, and balanced them on top of her heap. Then she went out of sight.
“I’m looking at pictures of old airplanes,” I said.
“Good.”
I wasn’t sure why he might think that was good.
“You’re not being blackmailed,” I said.
“No.”
“Then …”
“I’m being paid to distract you,” he said with a great sigh.
“From what?”
“Whatever you’re working on.”
“Who’s paying you?”
“A man who called me, said he knew my work, knew I was down on my luck. I’m supposed to keep bothering you, sending you on wild grouse hunts, tell you someone tried to kill me. Improvise.”
“How much is he paying you?”
“Five thousand dollars in advance. I’ve got it back in my room.”
“But you’ve decided …”
“The guy sounds nuts, is what I’m saying. I’m keeping the money, packing up, and moving west. I’m only renting a room here. He’s got someone keeping an eye on me. I’ll have to lose whoever it is.”
I was tempted to say I’d join him in his getaway, but it wasn’t temptation enough.
“Don’t go yet,” I said.
“Don’t go?”
“He calls you?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him you have me looking for grouse.”
“Ah, I see,” he said.
“What’s a grouse?” I asked.
Neither of us knew for certain.
“Let’s leave separately,” I said. “He might have followed you. I’ll get back to you.”
He got up without certainty and said, “I’m really very good with kids. I just, you know, got lost.”
“I know,” I said.
“You don’t live near here.”
“No. I come here when I want to be alone, where no one can find me unless they plant tracking devices on my bicycle. You want to give me a ride home?”
“No, can’t,” he said standing quickly. “I’ve got to go.”
He strode away quickly. I waited about ten seconds and then followed him to the glass doors at the entrance to the library. I stayed against a wall inside, watching him find his car in the lot and leave. It was a well-used Jeep of uncertain vintage. I got the first three letters of his tag before he turned left. That’s when whoever was in the backseat sat up. I couldn’t see who it was.
“Embarrassing, demeaning, humiliating, abasing,” Darrell said. “It brings me down. Know what I mean?”
He was out of intensive care and propped up on a couple of pillows. There was an IV in his right arm and a look of exasperation on his face. He was out of danger, but not out of flaunt.
“Almost killed by a BB in my back,” he said with a single shake of his head. “How do I explain that? How do I strut that? ‘Hey man, I got shot.’ ‘Yeah, with what?’ ‘A BB gun.’ ”
“It almost killed you,” I said.
“That makes no difference on my street. Take that back. Shot with a BB gun? That’s below a misdemeanor on my street.”
“Sorry. Maybe you’ll be lucky next time and get shot with a machine gun.”
“Not funny. I was lucky. Bad lucky,” said Darrell. “Hey, do me a favor and get the shooter. Then let old Ames shotgun blast him a second asshole.”
I nodded. He was still hooked up to the machine with the green screen that painted white mountains and valleys to the sound of a low beep-beep-beep.
“I’ll find him,” I said. “You want my hat?”
“Your Cubs hat? I’m touched, Fonesca. I know what that hat means to you but a, it’s your sweat in there, and b, I’m not a Cubs fan.”
I nodded again.
“My mom still mad at you?”
“Sort of.”
“Ms. Porovsky?”
Sally was more than Darrell’s caseworker. She was someone who cared. Sally knew she couldn’t save the children of the world one abuse at a time, but she couldn’t help trying.
“She’s fine,” I said.
“You?”
“I’m fine.”
“Why don’t you look fine? I don’t look fine,” said Darrell.
“Nurse says you can go home in a few days,” I said.
“From almost dead to back to school in three or four days,” he said.
“It happens.”
“But not much,” he said. “Old Chinese Victor saved my butt from going down the stairs.”
He made a tumbling motion with his free hand.
“I decided something,” he said, licking his lips.
I poured him water from a pitcher into a plastic cup on a table near his bed. He took it and, with my help, drank.
“Don’t laugh. Don’t even smile, and don’t tell anyone, not even my mom.”
“I won’t.”
“I know,” said Darrell. “I’m going to try out for the play at Booker.”
Booker High, I knew, had a big annual musical production. I’d been told by Sally and Flo that they were very nearly professional.
“You sing?” I asked.
“That’s what I like about you, Fonesca. You are dribbling down with emotion. I can sing. I can act.”
“What have you done?”
“Nothing yet,” he said. “I just know I’m good. I’ll tell them on the street that I’m going to be the next Will Smith or Denzel or Cuba. Maybe they’ll buy it, you know?”
We went silent and I listened to and watched the green mountain-and-valley machine.
“Get the guy who shot me, Fonesca.”
“I’ll get him,” I said. “Darrell, he was trying to shoot me.”
“I know that. It didn’t hurt less because of that. I’m tired.”
“I’ll be back,” I said.
“I might be out of here first,” he said so softly I could barely hear him.
Darrell’s eyes were closed. He was asleep.
I had people to see and a bicycle parked outside. I made a decision.
There were only two cars parked in the small driveway of the EZ Economy Car Rental. The EZ was a converted gas station, a half-block north of the now-demolished DQ on 301. It wouldn’t last much longer. The banks were moving like relentless giant Japanese movie monsters gobbling up small businesses and looking for more along the strip of 301 from Tamiami Trail to Main Street.
This didn’t matter to Alan, the formerly jovial partner of Fred, who was now dead with one heart attack too many. Alan had been the more likely candid
ate for heart trouble. In his late forties, Alan was twenty years younger than Fred but fifty pounds heavier. Alan was addicted to strong coffee. Alan had lost the sense of sardonic humor he and Fred had shared. It had kept them both sane between infrequent customers.
“Fonesca, the man from whom there are no secrets,” Alan said when I walked through the door.
He was seated at his wooden swivel chair behind the counter with a cup of coffee in his hand, a cluttered desk drawer lying in front of him. The coffee was in a black thermos. The suit and tie he usually wore had been replaced with slacks and a wrinkled white dress shirt with an open collar.
“You came at the right moment,” he said. “Today is the third and final day of liquidation. No more rentals. Two cars out there to sell. Take your pick.”
“I don’t want to own a car,” I said. “I want to rent one.”
“You don’t want to own anything,” he said. “And until Fred went to automobile nirvana, I wanted to own everything. The price is right. Both cars will be gone by tonight even if I have to give them to Goodwill.”
“How much for the Saturn?” I asked.
I had rented the gray 1996 Saturn before. There had been a little over 110,000 miles on the odometer when last we met. In its favor, it had behaved, though hollow clanks echoed under the glove box. The last car I had owned was the one I escaped from Chicago in and managed to get as far as the DQ parking lot. Cars and I are not friends. One of them had killed my wife. One of my many fears was that I might one day accidentally hit someone and spend the rest of my life like Victor Woo. Perpetual apology. Perpetual shock.
“What do you have in your wallet?” Alan asked after another sip of coffee followed by a face that suggested the coffee or life or both were bitter.
“I’m flush. Two clients.”
“Okay, how does sixty-six dollars sound to you?” he asked.
“For the Saturn? Reasonable.”
“You just bought a car. Congratulations. Enjoy. No, wait. You don’t enjoy anything.”
He picked up a pair of keys on a small metal hoop and threw them in my direction. They arced through the air, tinkling as they flew. I caught them.
“I’ve got the papers right here,” he said, shifting his considerable bulk so that he could dig into the exposed desk drawer.
I took out my wallet, extracted the sixty-six dollars and placed it on the counter. Alan shifted out of the chair, which let out a weary squeak. He placed the papers on the counter, signed them, asked me to sign, and said, “You want another car?”
“No.”
“Gift for a friend?”
“No.”
“We’re having a two-for-one sale.”
“No.”
“You are a tough customer.”
He held out his hand. We shook.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Decidedly not,” he said, “but I am solvent. Fred and I owned this business and the land on which it sits. I have a generous offer, which I have accepted. Fred’s widow and I will share right down the middle. Want to know how much we’re getting?”
“No.”
“A million six. I’m heading back to Grosse Pointe as soon as the papers are signed and the check is in my hand.”
“Good luck,” I said. “All right if I leave the car here for an hour?”
He shrugged, a good shrug that shook his expansive body, and said, “Till the wrecking ball descends.”
Outside, I used the cell phone, called Ames, and asked if he could meet me. I told him where. He said he could and would be right over. I walked across the street and into the Crisp Dollar Bill, where Sammy Davis, Jr., was singing “There’s a Slow Boat Sailing for New York.” The familiar smell of beer reminded me of Mac’s bar, back in Chicago, when I was a kid.
I made out the shape of four people at the bar to my left. No one was in any of the booths across from the bar. I sat in a booth where I could watch the door, looked over at Billy the bartender and owner, and nodded. He knew what I wanted.
Some say that good things come to those who wait. Bad things come, too.
The comedian Steven Wright says, “When worse comes to worse, we’re screwed.”
Blue Berrigan came through the door and sat across from me.
“I followed you again,” he said.
“I figured that out.”
Billy placed an Amstel and a mug in front of me.
“You want a beer?” I asked Blue.
“A beer?” He didn’t seem to understand.
“A beer, to drink.”
“Blue doesn’t drink alcohol. Dr Pepper.”
Billy nodded and moved off. Sammy Davis, Jr., had moved on to “What Kind of Fool Am I.”
“You ready to tell me who hired you?”
“No. Well, maybe.”
Blue was fidgeting, whispering, casting glances at the people at the bar who were not looking in his direction. Billy turned on the television set mounted up near the ceiling. He changed channels until he found what looked like a rerun of a high school football game. He turned off the sound. Blue had watched Billy.
“I think I know who it was,” I said. “I think it was a man who hides in the backseats of Jeeps.”
He started to slide out of the booth, but before he could, Ames sat next to him, blocking his exit.
“Blue Berrigan, this is Ames McKinney. Ames has done time for killing his former partner. Ames is a man of honor who has a fondness for weapons, usually of an older vintage.”
Ames was wearing his very old, very well cared-for tan leather Western jacket. He held it open so Blue could see something against Ames’s waist. I couldn’t see it from where I sat. I didn’t have to.
Berrigan looked frightened, very frightened, and said, “Wait, I have evidence that Ronnie Gerall didn’t kill Horvecki.”
“What evidence?” I asked.
“I’ve got it at my place.”
“Let’s get it,” Ames said.
Billy appeared with a bottle of beer for Ames and said, “Burger’ll be up in a few minutes. One for you?”
“No thanks. Ate at the Texas.”
“Blue Berrigan,” Ames went on when Billy left. “Kids’ singer?”
“Yes,” Blue said, moving farther into the corner.
“ ‘How Many Bunnies in the Hole’?”
“Yes.”
“You believe in coincidence?” Ames asked.
“Yes,” Blue said, growing smaller.
“I just bought a CD of yours for Catherine and Adele.”
“Coincidence,” Blue said. “This whole thing has gone too far.”
“It went too far when someone murdered Philip Horvecki,” I said.
The burger came. It was big. I knew it had grilled onions and tomato on a soft bun.
“I told you the truth. About distracting you, I mean. Listen, Blue needs the bathroom. He needs it bad, real bad,” Blue said.
“‘The Potty Is Your Friend,’ ” Ames said, looking at me.
“Let him out,” I said.
Ames sidled out of the booth, letting Blue get out and hurry toward the bathrooms at the rear. Ames got up and followed him. Then I heard Ames say, “He locked it.”
Two of the bar patrons looked toward the bathrooms. One was a shaky woman who kept blinking, the other a skinny man who tried to keep his elbows from slipping off the bar.
There was a window in the men’s room. It was high on the wall and narrow, but it was definitely possible for a man to squeeze through. I left my burger and called out for Billy to open the men’s room with a key. He got the urgency in the situation and moved quickly. So did I, but not toward the bathroom. I went past the bar and onto the street.
The red Jeep was parked half a block down, to my left. Blue Berrigan was racing for it and moving fast, fast enough to get into the car, make a U-turn, and be on his way before I got twenty steps, but not fast enough to keep me from seeing something move in the backseat of the Jeep.
Ames appeared at my si
de.
“Gone?” he asked.
“Gone,” I said.
“Know where?” asked Ames.
“I think so.”
We went back inside. I paid Billy, who said, “Always a pleasure having you. You bring a touch of chaos into an otherwise tranquil bar.”
I had the feeling he meant it.
I took my burger and led the way out the door and to my Saturn.
“Nice car,” he said.
“I bought it.”
“Needs help.”
“We all do.”
We got in, and I ate while I drove.
I came to three conclusions:
The Saturn would definitely not qualify for the Indy 500.
There was no radio in the car.
I still didn’t like driving.
Ames sat silently, jostled by what might be a weeping loose axle.
This was my kind of car.
Traffic wasn’t bad. It wasn’t snowbird weather, but as I tried to pick up speed I did pass three kids in a pickup truck wearing baseball caps. The kid in the middle had his cap turned around.
“Why do they wear their caps backward?” I asked Ames, who wasn’t likely to know but was the only other person in the car.
“Insecurity,” said Ames. “Want to look like millions of other kids.”
“Insecurity,” I said as I considered trying my Cubs cap backward. I decided not to. I already knew what a fool looked like.
“Only catchers behind the plate should wear their caps backward, to accommodate their masks,” I said.
I was in the right lane, going south on Beneva. The pickup pulled next to me. The kid in the window gave me a one-finger salute. Ames leaned over me and showed his long-barreled gun. The kids pulled away fast.
I tried for fast, too, and failed as the Saturn let me know that quick turns to the right were subject to grinding. We were on Wilkinson now. When we got in sight of the park I looked down the block at the parked red Jeep. I pulled in behind it and got out quickly, Ames right behind me as I hurried toward the yellow house after checking to be sure there was no one hunched down in the back of the Jeep.
I knocked at the front door of the yellow house. Ames was still behind me, his hand under his jacket. I knocked. There was a wheezing sound behind the door, which then opened.
The old woman who opened the door in an orange robe and slippers carried a yellow cup of steaming something.
Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) Page 10