Midnight Pass: A Lew Fonesca Novel (Lew Fonesca Novels)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Why didn’t he call me?” she asked suspiciously. “You two are hardly the best of friends.”

  “Perhaps he couldn’t reach you,” Wilkens said. “You can ask him tonight. I have to go now.”

  Wilkens hung up before the mayor could ask any more questions.

  I called Sally at her office and asked her if she could meet me for pizza with the kids at Honey Crust in about an hour. First she said she didn’t think so. Then she said, “Lewis, I’ve made a discovery. I’m tired and I can’t save the world.”

  “You knew that already.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I knew it, but somehow I wake up in the morning, providing I’ve been able to sleep, and manage to convince myself that maybe, just maybe I can keep one kid’s raft afloat for another day. Okay. We’ll be there in an hour.”

  “What about the one with the gun?” Ames said when I hung up. “Might take another shot at you.”

  “Want to come with us for pizza?”

  “No, but I can stay outside the place.”

  “I know who it is, Ames,” I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt. “I know who shot at me at Midnight Pass and the Laundromat. I don’t think they’ll take another chance. I’ll be fine. A little before nine about fifty yards down from Hoffmann’s gate.”

  He nodded.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, and started to turn toward the back of the bar.

  “Wait,” I said, reaching into the bag I was carrying and handing him a small desk clock with a picture of John Wayne on the face. The Duke was wearing a red vest, a battered brown cowboy hat, and over his shoulder, a shotgun not unlike the one Ames liked to hide under his slicker when weaponry was called for.

  “Hondo,” Ames said, picking up the clock.

  “I noticed you didn’t have a clock in your room,” I said. “This one works on batteries. Even has an alarm.”

  Ames touched the face of the clock with the long knobby fingers of his right hand and said, “Thank you, Lewis,” he said. “I’ll set it for eight-thirty.”

  “One more thing,” I said. “Flo’s having a barbecue Sunday. Adele said she wanted you to come.”

  I got along well with Adele, but it was Ames she had bonded with and he with her. They hardly ever said a word to each other when they were together, but it was there.

  “Tell me when. I’ll be there.”

  I left.

  I drove around for twenty minutes through subdivisions just off of Lockwood Ridge to be sure no one was following me. No one was. I got to Honey Crust a little before Sally and the kids arrived. There was the usual evening crowd and the smell of onions, garlic, and oregano.

  Sally sat across from me in the booth. Michael sat next to me. Susan sat next to her mother. We ordered a large deep-dish with onions, pepperoni, and sausage with extra cheese. We got a pitcher of Diet Coke and a large salad to share while we waited.

  “You have that statement for me?” Sally asked.

  She meant the one she wanted to put in her file about the Severtsons, the one in which I told her what had happened in Orlando.

  “Here,” I said, pulling it from the paper bag between Michael and me.

  “It’s all true, right, Lew?” Sally said, taking it.

  “What’s there is true,” I said. “What’s there is not all. It’s the best I can do right now.”

  She nodded and placed the folded sheets neatly into her purse.

  “What’s this?” Michael asked, looking down at the paper bag.

  I reached into it and came up with an Elvis Presley statue about five inches high. He was standing on a square black box. Elvis was wearing a black-and-white horizontal shirt and pants. He was holding a guitar. I handed it to Sally.

  “There’s a button on his back,” I said, showing her where it was. “Push it.”

  She did.

  “Someone threw a party at the county jail,” Elvis sang. His voice was small and tinny but it was Elvis. That was all he sang.

  “Fonesca,” she said, looking at it. “Sometimes I worry about you.”

  “You have enough to worry about. You like it?”

  “It’s great,” she said, leaning over the table to kiss my cheek. “I’ll keep it on my desk at work.”

  “I assume you have something equally nuts for us,” said Susan.

  “I do,” I said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a Buffy the Vampire Slayer doll. It was still in the box.

  “It’s old,” she said.

  “Susan,” Sally warned.

  “And it’s not Sarah Michelle Gellar,” Susan said, looking at the doll’s face.

  “It’s Kristy Swanson,” I said. “She was in the movie. She was the first Buffy.”

  “No way,” Susan said.

  “Definitely way,” said Michael, leaning over to see what there was for him.

  It was a piece of thick folded paper. The white was showing. I handed it to Michael and he started to unfold it. When he had it down to the last fold, he stood up and let the poster flop open.

  “‘Star Wars: Episode Two,’” he said. “Nice copy.”

  “It’s original,” I said. “It’s signed by Carrie Fisher.”

  He turned the poster around and examined the white dress of Princess Leia. There was the signature.

  “It’s real?” he said.

  “It’s real,” I said.

  “Mom,” Michael said, folding the poster carefully. “Marry this man.”

  “He’s…” Susan started, and looked at her Buffy doll. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t marry people because they buy you things,” Sally said.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” Michael said, sitting down, poster in his lap. “And lots of people do marry other people because they give them things.”

  “But they don’t stay happy with just things,” Susan said. “Right?”

  She was looking at Sally, who was smiling at Elvis.

  “Right,” Sally said, putting Elvis on the table.

  We finished a pitcher of Diet Coke and our salad and the pizza came. Susan ate the most. Michael was second. Sally third, and I had a single slice.

  “Is this like the real way pizza’s supposed to be?” Susan asked me.

  “Tastes fine to me,” I said.

  “You’re Italian,” Susan said. “You should know. Didn’t your mother make pizza?”

  “No.”

  “Your grandmother?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be Italian? My mom makes matzo ball soup.”

  “So did my mom,” I said.

  “But you’re Italian, not Jewish.”

  “We liked matzoball soup,” I said.

  “You know,” Susan said. “I can never tell when you’re serious and when you’re trying to be funny.”

  “It’s a curse,” I said. “I’m working with a doctor to find the charm that’ll free me.”

  We finished the pizza and I paid the check. Sally left the tip. It was what we had agreed to do whenever I invited them out.

  I walked them to their Honda, each carrying the gift I’d given them from Mickey’s Collectibles.

  “Come over for dinner Sunday,” Sally said.

  She looked tired but she was smiling. Her skin was clear, and in the red, white, and yellow lights of the stores in the mall she reminded me of Ava Gardner in The Barefoot Contessa.

  “Adele invited us to come to Flo’s for a barbecue,” I said. “You, the kids, me, Ames.”

  “What time?” she asked.

  I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Michael and Susan waved to me as Sally drove off. I checked my watch. If I didn’t drive too fast, I’d be in front of Hoffmann’s at least fifteen minutes before nine.

  14

  I WAS ACROSS FROM Kevin Hoffmann’s impressive iron gate and high brick walls at ten minutes to nine. I didn’t stop. I drove around the neighborhood and came back. There were no other cars on the street of big houses, all with big driveways an
d big garages.

  Then I heard Ames’s motor scooter coming. It was like a call to the curious. When he stopped behind me and turned the bike off, I was sure we had only minutes before we were surrounded by police.

  A very thin, very small, very nervous black man wearing a pair of dark pants, a navy-colored T-shirt, a bulky-looking brown leather jacket, and a battered fedora that would have been the envy of Indiana Jones got off the back of Ames’s bike. I got out of the car.

  “Snickers,” said Ames.

  I shook Snickers’s hand and handed him a hundred-dollar bill, a twenty, and a ten. He kissed each one and said, “The trunk.”

  We moved behind the car and I opened the trunk. Since it was a rental, it was empty.

  Snickers pointed at Ames’s scooter.

  “Inside,” he said, standing back and looking both ways down the street, constantly adjusting his battered fedora.

  Ames and I managed to get the scooter in the trunk. Half of it hung out. Ames pulled a bungee cord from the little pouch on his scooter and expertly tied the scooter down.

  “Back in the car,” Snickers whispered.

  We all got back in. From the backseat, leaning over my shoulder, Snickers, who could have used a healthy dose of Scope, guided me slowly to a driveway two estates over from the Hoffmann place.

  “They ain’t home,” said Snickers. “Go right over the lawn. Lights out. Park near the pool on the grass. Cops can’t see a car from the street and they don’t do a house-by-house until a little after midnight or one depending on which cop is working. Tonight’s Friday. It’ll be the fat old white guy, off-duty North Port cop. He came by about half an hour ago. He’ll hit this stretch at one, maybe a few minutes past, then again at three-thirty.”

  I nodded and got out of the car, following Snickers, who disappeared through a clump of bushes.

  “Wall’s not hard to get up,” Snickers said, stopping when we got to the barrier. “But up top it’s got a jolt that’ll send you flying and lucky to land on your ass and they’ll know inside something’s been climbing or landing.”

  The moon was almost full but not bright enough to show us what Snickers’s flashlight, produced from the inside of his leather jacket, put into a white pool of light.

  “Dead birds, gulls, raccoons on the ground all along here,” he said. “All zapped. Probably won’t kill a man though I don’t know, a skinny one like me or you even or an old one like old Ames here wouldn’t want to test it out.”

  “So what do we do?” I asked.

  “We wade in the water,” Snickers said, snapping off his flashlight. “Like the old song says. ‘I’m gonna wade in the water.’”

  We followed him along the wall to the narrow beach where the wall ended, but a metal fence about twelve feet high extended into the water about ten yards.

  Hoffmann’s house was clear from where we stood. It sat back, three stories, lights on in almost every window. I didn’t see anyone looking out of a window at the white-moon ripples on the waves.

  “We’re gonna get wet to the ankles,” Snickers said, taking off his shoes and socks, rolling up his cuffs, and motioning for Ames and me to do the same. We did, tucking the socks into the shoes. “Tide’s low, real low. We get around the fence. You do just what I do, right behind me, know what I’m sayin’?”

  I wasn’t sure that an answer was called for, but I said, “Yes.”

  “And remember, don’t touch the fence,” Snickers said, shoes tucked under his arms. “I repeat, do not touch the fence.”

  The water was cool but not cold, bare feet on finely ground shells and then firm sand as we followed Snickers.

  The water was up to my calves when we moved around the fence. Something slithered against my foot. I tried not to think of what it might be.

  The wooden dock I had seen from inside the house stood high out of the water, with a small cabin boat tied to it and bobbing.

  Snickers motioned to us and, heads together, he whispered. “Dock is wired. Boat’s wired too. Likewise about ten feet of the beach from fence we came around to fence on the other side. Some scared people in there with something to hide. A challenge. Anthony Bussy likes a challenge.”

  “Anthony Bussy?” I asked.

  “Me,” he said with irritation. “You don’t think my momma named me Snickers do you? We ain’t no comedy team, Snickers, Cowboy, and the Wop. We’re Ocean’s Three and the head man is me.”

  Anthony “Snickers” Bussy was high on something. I hoped it was sugar.

  We waded single file to the dock but didn’t touch it. Snickers moved toward the beach and motioned underneath the boards of the boat dock where small waves were lapping. He bent over and duck-walked under the dock, still ankle-deep in the water. On the far side, he turned and held up his right hand. Then he reached up and took hold of a two-by-four that jutted out and with both hands swung himself up on the deck. Then he turned and held out his hands, motioning for me to reach up to him.

  For a skinny little man on a sugar high, Snickers was strong. He pulled me up and balanced me with one hand to keep my feet next to his. Then the two of us helped Ames follow us. This was a little trickier, since Ames was taller and weighed down by whatever armor he carried under his slicker, but he made it.

  “There’s a wood plank under the sand,” Snickers whispered. “About as wide as J. Lo’s behind. Walk behind me real tight-ass and you’ll feel it with your toes.”

  Snickers led the way, with Ames behind me probably wondering who Jay Lowe was and how wide a behind he had. We must have looked like three Alzheimer patients playing Follow the Leader.

  After about a dozen steps Snickers stopped.

  “Safe here,” Snickers said. “No dogs. Let’s move.”

  When we reached the shadow of the house, Snickers put his back to the wall, wiped the bottoms of his feet to get rid of the sand, and motioned for us to do the same. Ames and I brushed our feet and put on our socks and shoes.

  I had made a rough two-page drawing of the inside of the house, but Snickers had said he didn’t need it. He had been here before. All he needed was to know which room we were going for.

  “Windows are wired,” Snickers whispered. “There’s a door back here, back of the garage, and a big door to the house. We go in back here.”

  The back door was on a broad, covered porch with wooden deck chairs padded with plush turquoise down pillows. The windows off the door were dark. Snickers moved to one of them and looked in. Satisfied, he reached under his leather jacket and came up with two six-inch-long needle-thin rods of metal.

  “Spend maybe a hundred and fifty thousand juicing this place and the lock on the back door ain’t worth fire-ant shit.”

  He inserted both pieces of metal in the lock, played with them for a few seconds, and heard something over the waves that Ames and I didn’t hear.

  “Black jack, quinine, a bit of dose,” he said, putting the pieces of metal away and coming out from under his coat with a ribbon-thin strip of dark metal and a pliers, the thinnest pliers I had ever seen, with long pincers.

  “Dead bolts,” he whispered, going to work. “Two of them. Got a real quiet little handsaw with diamond blades I can rent from a supplier in Tampa, but I didn’t have the cash and you didn’t have the time. This worked last time. If they didn’t change to something better, it’ll work again.”

  Snickers went to work, slowly, quietly.

  “You’re working cheap,” I said, seeing beads of sweat beginning to form on his nose.

  “Love of the game,” he said. “Here comes our only sure noise. Cowboy?”

  Ames reached under his slicker and came out with his shotgun.

  There was a metallic double click, not loud but not quiet either. Snickers tucked his tools away, opened the door, and walked in, with Ames and me behind him.

  We were in the kitchen. There was enough light coming from the next room to show us that. We stood waiting, Ames’s shotgun aimed at the passageway between the kitchen and what looked like
a family room or den.

  There were voices far away, deep in the house. We followed Snickers through the next door and found ourselves in a room filled with overstuffed dark chairs and shelves of books and videotapes. A large television set with a monster screen stood at the end of the room.

  There was a single floor lamp on. Between the shelves of books and tapes were huge paintings of baseball players in full uniform, four of them altogether. In one, Willie Mays stood with his bat back, waiting for the pitch. In another, a pitcher, hands up, ball protected, looking over his shoulder at a man on second base, was frozen forever deciding whether to throw a fastball or curve. I thought it was Robin Roberts. I wasn’t sure.

  The third painting looked as if it had been copied from an old baseball card, a very old baseball card judging from the player’s uniform, mustache, and the part down the center of his hair. I guessed Honus Wagner.

  The fourth painting was someone I didn’t recognize at first. The Yankees uniform, the confident smile, the bat over his shoulder, the cap tilted back. It was Kevin Hoffmann, an idealized Kevin Hoffmann, a Kevin Hoffmann at least thirty years younger than the man I had met, but definitely Kevin Hoffmann who, I knew, had never played for the Yankees.

  “Come on,” Snickers whispered to wake me from Hoffmann’s dream.

  Snickers first, me second, and Ames last, we moved past a door to our right to a second door at the end of the room. Snickers opened it slowly and we heard a man’s voice, clear, distinct, several rooms away.

  “He’s gonna have some trouble living that one down,” the man said.

  “He’s been through it before. We all were. They’ll be cheering him with the next home run.”

  The voices were coming from a radio or television. We moved slowly through a hardwood-floored dining room to an open door. The sound of the baseball announcers came from our right. There was a spiral staircase just to our left. Up we went. When we were almost at the top, I looked down into the room where the voice from the television set said, “A hit here could tie it up.”

  I could see Kevin Hoffmann below, sitting with his back to me. He was wearing a pair of tan shorts and a baggy short-sleeved shirt with black-and-white vertical stripes. In his left hand was a glass of dark liquid. On his lap was a large pistol. I nudged Ames, who looked where I was pointing and he nodded.