Always Say Goodbye: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (3 page)

Read Always Say Goodbye: A Lew Fonesca Mystery Online

Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky

BOOK: Always Say Goodbye: A Lew Fonesca Mystery
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“Right.”
“You have it?” Lew asked as Franco looked over his left shoulder and eased into the traffic.
“It’s at home,” Franco said.
Lew nodded and looked out the window. Standing at the curb was the one-eyed young man with the laptop. He was looking back at Lew.
“Friend or something?” asked Franco. “That guy back there?”
“Something, maybe,” Lew said, looking back.
The young man with one eye focused on the back of the tow truck. He was looking at the license plate number.
“Want to know about what’s going on in the family, Lewie?”
“Later,” Lew said, looking over his shoulder at the one-eyed man who got into a green Buick that pulled up to the curb.
“Want the radio?”
“No,” Lew said.
“Want to go into outer space in a Russian shuttle?”
He was looking ahead and grinning. Franco had a strange sense of humor, but at least he had one.
“Would I be alone?” Lew asked, looking at the familiar brick bungalows on Cicero Avenue.
“No, you’d have to go up with the national baton-twirling champion and an abusive long-retired astronaut.”
“I think I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself,” Franco said with a shrug. “Like a miniature Snickers bar left over from Halloween?”
“Yes.”
“Glove compartment,” he said.
Lew opened the glove compartment and small wrapped bars of Twix, Snickers, Milky Ways, and Twizzlers tumbled out. He leaned over to scoop them up and put them back.
“I’ll take a Twix,” Franco said.
Lew handed him one and took a Snickers for himself.
“Two things I gotta tell you,” Franco said, opening the candy wrapper and popping the mini-Twix bar in his mouth while Lew carefully tore the Snickers bag and took a bite.
“First,” he said. “Terri, Teresa, is a freshman at Northern Illinois. Doing great. You know that?”
“No.”
Teresa was Angela and Franco’s daughter.
“Political science,” he said.
The entrance to the Dan Ryan Expressway was right in front of the truck.
“Second, a car is following us,” Franco said calmly.
Lew didn’t turn around to look.
“Driver’s young, big, buzz cut,” said Franco. “Passenger is the one who was looking at you at the curb.”
Southwest had open seating. The one-eyed man had chosen to sit next to Lew.
They were on the expressway now.
“Want me to push them to the rail?” Franco said. “I’ll get out, yank ’em out of the car and find out what the hell they’re doing.”
“No,” Lew said. “But if you can get behind them I’ll get their license plate number.”
“This have something to do with Catherine?”
“I don’t know.”
Franco slowed and when the other car was no more than fifteen feet behind them, Franco pulled suddenly into the next lane cutting off an SUV. The driver of the Buick didn’t have Franco’s skill or experience. Franco cut across lanes, dropped back and then scooted right behind the Buick. Lew wrote the license plate number in his notebook.
“Okay,” said Lew.
Franco was grinning and shaking his head.
“I can’t believe this, Lewie. You’ve been here what, five, ten minutes and people are following you. Beneath that beat-down exterior, you are one piece of cake.”
“Thanks,” said Lew.
Franco picked up the cell phone from the charger on his dashboard and punched in two numbers.
“Rick,” Franco said into the phone. “How’s with you? Me too. Say, listen, can you run a plate for me and the driver’s license ? Great.”
Franco looked at Lew who read the plate numbers. Franco repeated them to Rick.
“Got that?” Franco said. “Great. What you say we go for beef sandwiches at Fiocca’s for lunch next week? Name the day … okay. Wednesday at one. Make it fast on those numbers.”
He pushed a button on the phone and put it back on the dashboard.
“Now do we stop ’em?” asked Franco.
“Yes,” said Lew.
Franco grinned.
“Great to have you back, Lewie.”
Franco moved into the lane next to the Buick. Lew could see both the driver and the one-eyed man. They didn’t look back at Lew.
Franco checked the traffic behind him and moved the tow truck to within inches of the other car. The driver tried to move forward, but there was another slow-moving car in front of him. Franco gently eased the truck against the Buick at forty miles an hour. The other car started to lose control, regained it, and came to a stop against the rail. Franco parked ahead of the car, looked at Lew and said, “What do you want to know besides why they’re following us?”
“They’re following me, Franco.”
“Same difference. You, me. I’m fuckin’ offended.”
Franco was staring at the rearview mirror. The car parked behind him didn’t move. No doors opened.
“They might have guns, Franco,” Lew said.
Franco opened his tow-truck jacket revealing a holstered weapon.
“Legal,” he said. “Glock Twenty-eight … 380 caliber. Six inches long, a little over an inch wide. Weighs less than twenty ounces. I’ve got a permit. I’m a tow-truck driver in Chicago.”
“You ever shoot anybody?” Lew asked.
“No, you?”
“Once,” Lew said, looking at the car which Franco had pinned to the steel divider.
Franco looked at him, waiting. Lew offered no more.
Franco turned on the radio, which was tuned to the police band. He kicked up the volume and got out of the truck, checking traffic.
“Leave your door open,” he said, starting toward the other car.
Lew got out. He had almost forgotten the noise of expressway traffic, the clanging, coughing, squealing, braking, screeching agony of bouncing trucks and addicted horn pushers. And then there were the highway fumes. The memory became a reality again.
As Franco approached the Buick, the driver was looking over his shoulder, trying to find room to back up and then get back into traffic. He didn’t have time and there were no breaks in the traffic.
Lew’s eyes were on the one-eyed young man, who didn’t look the least bit concerned that the barrel of a man was lumbering toward him.
Franco reached for the handle of the driver’s door. It was locked.
“Open it,” he commanded over the noise.
The driver showed no sign of opening the door. Franco
reached into the lower pocket of his jeans and came up with a small silver metal hammer. He showed it to the driver who knew what it was, a compact powerful hammer made to go through automobile windows in an emergency.
The driver looked at his passenger, who nodded to indicate that the driver should open the window. The window rolled down.
“We’re not—” the driver said.
Franco reached through the window, grabbed the man’s jacket and pulled him out. The man was big, not as big as Franco, but a certain two hundred pounds.
“The police are going to be here,” the driver panted as Franco pushed him back against the car.
“Take them ten, maybe fifteen minutes,” said Franco. “You could both be hurting a lot by then. I’ll know when they’re coming.”
He glanced at the tow truck. The voice on the police band was clear in spite of the traffic that zipped by.
Cars began to slow. There would be a gapers’ block in a few seconds. The possibility of seeing death or destruction or someone being beaten because of road rage was too much for most people to resist. They had to slow down, catch a glimpse and drive on, comforted by the fact that it was someone else who was at the side of the road.
The one-eyed man sat calmly, looking forward. Then he made a decision, opened his door, got out and faced Lew.
“Talk to me,” Franco said to the driver.
The driver said, “No.”
The one-eyed man turned and fixed his only eye on the driver. There was a distinct family resemblance. Brothers, cousins?
Franco looked at Lew who nodded, and he let the driver
slump against the door. Lew walked toward the one-eyed man.
“Why are you following me?” Lew asked.
“To keep you alive,” he said.
“Men in blue are coming, Lew,” said Franco.
In the distance, weaving toward them, a police siren shrieked. Traffic was at a very slow gawker’s walk.
“Who wants me dead?” Lew asked.
“Let’s just say a very bad person who knew your wife,” the one-eyed man said.
“A very bad person,” Lew repeated.
The young man pointed to his glass eye, giving a hint of how bad this person could be.
“Here they come,” said Franco, standing by the driver who was still shaking.
The police car inched its way through the traffic, flashing its lights. Cars and trucks made room.
“This bad person kill my wife?”
“I don’t know,” the young man said. “Probably.”
The police car pulled in and parked in front of the tow truck.
“Why does he want me dead?”
“You have something he wants,” he said, turning his head toward the police car from which two uniformed officers emerged, both black and with weapons in their hands.
“What do I have and why did he wait so long to kill me?”
“He didn’t know where you were. He found your name somewhere, an article perhaps on the Internet,” said the young man. “Then you bought an airline ticket. If we could find out about that, he can find it. I flew to Tampa and stayed with you from the second you got to the Southwest counter.”
“Why do you want to help me?” Lew asked, but before the young man could answer the police were too close to continue.
“Everybody just hold it where you are,” said the older of the two cops.
He was lean, homely, dark and serious.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
He and his partner, who had television star good looks, moved toward them.
“Roadside assistance,” said Franco. “That’s my tow truck. He called me.”
“That’s right,” said the driver.
“We got a call saying someone was being pulled out of the window by a man who looked like Mike Ditka.”
“Hear that, Lew? Not the first time someone thought I looked like Iron Mike,” said Franco with a smile.
“Hey,” the older cop called impatiently over the madness of the cars and trucks rushing by in both directions.
“Right,” said Franco. “Driver here was in a panic. Froze. Thought his car was about to blow up or something. I pulled him out.”
Franco looked at the driver.
“Right,” the driver said.
“What’s wrong with the car?” the older cop asked, suspiciously looking at Lew and then at the one-eyed man.
“Short,” said Franco. “He smelled burning wire. It’s fixed now.”
“I owe this man,” said the driver, glaring at Franco.
The cops looked at each of the four men in front of them. The older cop decided that the group looked a little strange maybe, but not formidable. Both cops holstered their weapons but kept a hand on them.
“Move out,” said the cop. “You’re tying up traffic.”
“One second,” Franco said. “He hasn’t paid me yet.”
Turning to the driver, Franco said, “That’ll be fifty dollars. Cash.”
The driver looked at the one-eyed man who reached into his pocket and came up with two twenties and a ten. He handed them to Franco. Lew had a lot to ask the one-eyed man but he had moved into the car along with the driver. Franco tapped Lew on the shoulder and Lew followed him to the tow truck.
“Now that was fun, huh, Lewie?” he asked, hitting his horn, easing into traffic.
“One couldn’t wish for more,” Lew said, reaching into his duffel bag and pulling out his Cubs cap.
“Still got that?”
“Still got it,” said Lew who put the cap on his head.
Ann Horowitz had said that Lew wore the cap for many reasons. She said that one obvious reason was to cover Lew’s balding head. “That,” she had said, “is good. It shows that you still care about how you look to the world and how you look to yourself. It’s a sign of ego. It’s a very small tear in your precious depression. If it is, I want to find the tear and sew it up. Don’t worry. We’ll apply a very local anesthetic.”
Lew felt that his depression was too important to him to lose. Ann knew this and knew about what he might have to deal with if it were gone.
Ann also believed that the cap was an attempt to hold onto something positive from the past, memories of Banks, Williams, Santo, Dawson, Sosa, Cey, Sandberg. Lew liked that interpretation. Whatever the cap might mean, he always felt a little better, a little more protected, when he wore it.

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