Vengeance (25 page)
Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
“Where do I deliver the eight thousand?”
“Main post office. Noon on the button. Woman in a white dress. Blonde. Young. Pretty. Cash in an envelope. If there’s anything traceable, marked, you die. You want to die for eight thousand dollars?”
“No,” I said.
“You have eight thousand dollars?”
“No, but I can get it.”
“I don’t need eight thousand dollars, you understand. But I have to have it.”
“The principle.”
“The principle. You walk out of here now. You never come back. You never look for me again. You forget you ever met me.”
“Met who?”
He smiled and put his right hand on the side of my neck and patted not too gently.
“Right question,” he said. “You’ve got three minutes to be back on Proctor Road.”
I left. I didn’t see anyone outside the doors of the clubhouse, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. I was on Proctor Road heading home in less than two minutes.
It was night. It wasn’t late. I drove to Flo’s. The lights were on. Her 1994 Jeep was probably in the garage.
She opened the door a few seconds after I rang. She had a drink in her hand.
“Lewis,” she said. “You here to check up on me?”
“No, Flo.”
“Smell this, taste it,” she said, holding the glass in front of my face.
I took the glass, smelled it, tasted it.
“Ginger ale,” I said.
“Seven-goddamn-Up,” she answered. “Come in.”
Flo was wearing a blue buttoned shirt and a denim skirt. A familiar voice was singing through the house.
He was singing something about the rose of San Antoine.
“Roy Rogers,” she said. “Underrated singer. Sons of the Pioneers backing him up. You’ve got news? You want a drink?”
“No drink, thanks.”
We sat in the kitchen. I had caught Flo in the middle of dinner. There was a plate on the table, knife and fork. Chicken, green beans.
“Mind if I eat while we talk?”
“No,” I said.
“Hungry?”
“No.”
She ate.
“Edna Stockbridge called me, said Adele had to stay put for a few days, said she had to clear the papers we worked on and get a judge to approve me. Said there wouldn’t be a problem. Hell, Lewis, I’m going to be a mother after all these years.”
“She won’t—”
“Be easy,” she finished for me. “Tell me something new.”
“Eight thousand dollars,” I said. “I need eight thousand dollars cash.”
She ate some chicken and said,
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning at the latest,” I said.
“Big bills, little bills, what?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said.
“I’ll get it after I finish eating unless you’re in a hurry.”
“You want to know why I need it?”
“If you want to tell me,” she said.
“It’s about Adele,” I said. “We’re—you’re insuring her from her past.”
“Eight thousand isn’t much to insure that.”
She finished, threw her bones in the red kitchen
garbage can, rinsed her plate, knife, fork and glass and put them in the dishwasher. Then she went to a drawer, opened it, took out a small screwdriver and motioned for me to follow her. We went across the living room to the opposite side of the house and down a hallway I’d never been in before. She led me into a little room with carpeting; two recliners and a television set. The lights were already on. Roy Rogers was loud and clear in here too. He was singing about a pony now.
garbage can, rinsed her plate, knife, fork and glass and put them in the dishwasher. Then she went to a drawer, opened it, took out a small screwdriver and motioned for me to follow her. We went across the living room to the opposite side of the house and down a hallway I’d never been in before. She led me into a little room with carpeting; two recliners and a television set. The lights were already on. Roy Rogers was loud and clear in here too. He was singing about a pony now.
Flo went to the television set mounted on a dark wood table with rollers. She rolled the television out of the way and opened a little built-in cabinet. There were books in the cabinet. She handed them to me and told me to put them down. I put them on one of the recliners. Then she reached back and edged the back wall of the cabinet out with the screwdriver.
We weren’t through. There was a black safe with a dial and white numbers.
“I use my birthday backwards,” she said, turning the dial as she said, “Thirty-four, twenty-nine, nine.”
The safe swung open. It was piled thick and tight with bills. She pulled out a stack on the left, counted off hundreds and handed them to me. She pocketed a pile of bills and put everything back the way it had been. When I handed her the last book and she had put it in place, Roy Rogers sang, “Yippie ti aye oh.”
“Thanks, Flo,” I said.
She waved off my thanks as she rolled the TV back into place.
“Need an envelope for that?”
“Yes.”
She went to a table between the recliners, opened a drawer, pulled out an envelope and handed it to me.
“My husband, Gus, and me used to practically live in this room,” she said. “Now I do. Watch TV, read, write letters, drink, listen to music. That was his chair. This is mine. I like this room. I like it being small.”
“I like it too,” I said.
I meant it.
“I’m going to wait till Adele’s here before I redecorate the guest room down the hall, turn it into hers. She can do what she wants with it long as she keeps it clean.”
“Don’t spoil her, Flo.”
“I’ll work her. Don’t worry.”
“And don’t let her know about the safe,” I said.
“Lewis, you’ve known me two, three years. Am I a fool?”
“Definitely not.”
“Then don’t act is if I might be one. I know what the girl’s been through. She’s not coming to me out of a finishing school. She’s a tough orphan. I’m a tough widow. Good combination.”
“Good combination,” I agreed.
“You bet your ass it is,” she said, guiding me down the corridor to the door, holding on to my arm, screwdriver peeking out of her pocket, smile on her face.
When I left, Roy Rogers was singing “Happy Trails.”
With eight thousand dollars in my pocket and a murder weapon under the seat, I headed home. The blue Buick was right behind me. Well, not right behind me but not far enough back that I couldn’t see him.
I hadn’t eaten with Tilly and I hadn’t eaten with Flo. Pirannes hadn’t offered me anything. The problem was that I wasn’t hungry. The DQ was doing burn-up business now. The parking lot was almost full. I retrieved the gun, dropped it in my pocket where it did not fit snugly and wouldn’t have even if it hadn’t been in a ziploc bag, and went to my office-home.
The window was fixed and the broken air conditioner gone. Ames. Always Ames. I locked the door, put the chair in front of it, pulled the plug on my phone and went to bed with the gun and the envelope full of
hundreds under the bed. There wasn’t a decent place to hide anything here and I didn’t want to part with gun or money.
hundreds under the bed. There wasn’t a decent place to hide anything here and I didn’t want to part with gun or money.
So I put them where even a retarded blind chimp could find them. Then I watched my tape of
Mildred Pierce
for the three or four hundredth time.
Mildred Pierce
for the three or four hundredth time.
When I woke up in the morning after dreaming of Ann Blyth coming to shoot me, I reached under the bed and found gun and money. I needed a shave. It was a little after seven in the morning. I was hungry. I staggered into the office and plugged in the phone. It was ringing.
“Hello,” I said.
“Lewis, your phone is broken or you were out all night.”
“I unplugged it.”
“It’s me, Harvey.”
“I know,” I said, mouth and tongue dry.
“Bingo,” he said.
“Straight line or four corners?”
“Melanie Sebastian,” he said. “Found her.”
Which meant that Melanie Sebastian was ready to be found. There was no hurry. She would wait for me wherever it was. She had lived up to her word. She had let me find her just when she had promised.
THERE WAS A LOT
to do that Saturday. It was too early for the DQ, and Gwen’s place was only open during the week. I drove through the McDonald’s where 301 and Tamiami Trail meet across from the office of the
Sarasota Herald-Tribune
.
to do that Saturday. It was too early for the DQ, and Gwen’s place was only open during the week. I drove through the McDonald’s where 301 and Tamiami Trail meet across from the office of the
Sarasota Herald-Tribune
.
The blue Buick was behind me. It was hard for him to hide on a sleepy Saturday morning.
I got a small black coffee and two Egg McMuffins. I ate the sandwiches as I drove, and when I parked in front of the offices of Tycinker, Oliver and Schwartz I drank my coffee. The street was almost deserted. A handful of cars were parked on the street, which on weekdays was full.
When I finished my coffee, I went into the office building and up the elevator to the door, which was open. There was no receptionist on duty and I could hear no voices. I moved down the corridor past the desk of the chief secretary and to Harvey’s open office.
“Lewis,” he said.
Harvey was clean-shaven, his hair brushed. He was wearing an Oberlin sweatshirt and working at his computers with a mug of coffee or tea steaming next to him.
“Harvey,” I said. “What have we got?”
“The technology doesn’t exist to find the Buga-Buga-Boo virus origin. At least I haven’t found it yet. The information superhighway does not yet have speed traps.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I haven’t given up yet. You want Melanie Sebastian. I have her. Credit card in her name used yesterday at the Barrington House in Holmes Beach, that’s on Anna Maria Island.”
Harvey handed me the phone as he kept working. I looked up the Barrington House. It was a bed-and-breakfast. I called. A woman answered. I told her I was in from Baltimore and looking for a place for my wife and I to spend a quiet weekend at the end of the year. I said I’d like to come see the accommodations sometime this weekend. She gave me directions. I hung up, thanked Harvey and went back out past the empty offices.
I wanted to get rid of the gun I was carrying. I also wanted to get rid of the eight thousand dollars in cash. I wasn’t worried about being picked up by the police for speeding or making an illegal turn. I’m too careful a driver for that, but Detective Etienne Vivaise might be looking for me again.
I drove to Carl Sebastian’s high-rise condo building. I thought I might wake him up. I didn’t. He answered the buzzer in the lobby after a full minute and asked who I was. I told him. He buzzed me in. When the elevator doors opened, he was there in a white robe, freshly showered, a V8 in hand. He looked nervous, anxious.
“You could have called,” he said, “but if you have
information about Melanie … I was up at four this morning. I can’t sleep. I can’t do anything.”
information about Melanie … I was up at four this morning. I can’t sleep. I can’t do anything.”
“Today,” I said as the elevator closed behind me. “I’ll find her today. I’ll talk to her. After that, it’s up to her. If she says no, the choice is yours.”
He ushered me into his apartment and closed the door.
“You’re sure you can find her today?”
“I’m sure.”
“When?”
“Before the sun goes down,” I said.
He took a sip of V8 and nodded. His hand shook just slightly.
“I suppose I can’t persuade you to tell me where she is so I can …”
“We have an agreement,” I said.
“You’re right. You’re right. Just tell her I love her, want her back. She can make the terms. If I’ve done something wrong—”
“I know what to say,” I said. “I need another five hundred dollars to close out the case. I’ll give you a fully itemized bill for expenses.”
He looked at me and said,
“You really know where she is?”
“I really know.”
“This isn’t a con to get an additional five hundred out of me?”
“Keep the five hundred and I stop looking as of this minute,” I said.
He drained the glass of juice, thought for a second and said,
“I’ll write you a check.”
“Cash would be better,” I said.
He put down the glass on the living room table and plunged his hands into the pockets of his robe. He looked at the portrait of his wife over the mantelpiece. I looked too. Then he sighed and said, “All right. Cash.”
I stayed in the living room, standing, looking at the portrait of Melanie Sebastian, while he moved to his office.
He came back in about three minutes, a folded wad of bills in his hand.
“I’ll write out a receipt,” I said.
“No, that’s not necessary. Find her today, please.”
Sebastian was himself again. I didn’t count the money. I placed the wad of bills in my pocket and left.
The sun was out. The clouds were white and billowy and moving slowly. I drove over to Sarasota High School to watch the baseball team work out and play an intersquad game. There were about two dozen parents, girlfriends and people like me with nothing else to do in the stands.
I didn’t see my angel in the blue Buick. Maybe he wasn’t a baseball fan. The coach stopped the game from time to time to point out some problem, show the shortstop the right move for a double-play ball going from first base to second base and back to first, demonstrate to the center fielder how to throw home from the outfield so the ball could be cut off by the pitcher.
It wasn’t like sitting in the stands watching the Cubs on a weekday afternoon, but it helped keep me from thinking too consciously about the gun and the money in my pocket.
I left after an hour. I had a Chicago Bulls baseball cap in the dresser in my room, but I hadn’t thought about bringing it. If I stayed out in the sun too much longer, the top of my head would be sunburned: one of the several disadvantages of being almost bald.
Time moved slowly. So did I and so did the blue Buick. By eleven-thirty I had killed as much time as I could. I headed for the post office on Ringling.
The lot was almost full. I parked. A hot-dog cart stood on the sidewalk doing minimal business. I bought
a dog from the dark, deeply tanned woman who wore an apron and a smile. She was a tall, slim brunette about forty.
a dog from the dark, deeply tanned woman who wore an apron and a smile. She was a tall, slim brunette about forty.
The dog wasn’t kosher and the bun wasn’t steamed. I put extra onions and mustard on it and stood eating while I watched the front of the post office.
The blue Buick waited at the end of the parking lot.
“How’s business?” I asked.
“Saturday’s not the best,” she said. “During the week, working people line up sometimes. On Saturdays, you know, I catch ’em coming out of the post office.”
“Then why come on Saturday?”
“I’ve got three kids and a husband on disability,” she said. “It gets me out of the house and brings in maybe fifty to a hundred and fifty clear.”
“You want to double your business?” I asked as I worked on my hot dog and watched the door.
“No,” she said. “I want to keep living just above the poverty level.”
“Kosher hot dogs, fresh steamed buns, good buns.”
“Cost too much,” she said.
“Double your business,” I said.
“You want to guarantee that?”
“Life’s a risk,” I said, finishing my hot dog and throwing my napkin into a garbage bag she had set up.
“I’ll stick with what I know,” she said. “High profit. Low maintenance. If I spend more on merchandise I’ll need more volume and I’ll have more customers than I can handle.”
She had a point.
“See that car, the blue Buick at the end of the parking lot?”
“Yes,” she said, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.
“Two dogs with everything, a bag of chips and a
Coke,” I said, taking out two fives and handing them to her. “No change.”
Coke,” I said, taking out two fives and handing them to her. “No change.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“I’ll watch the stand while you make the delivery. You can keep an eye on me.”
She got the dogs together, wrapped them, pulled out a Coke and a bag of potato chips and put it all in a brown paper bag. I stood watching as she hurried across the lot and knocked at the window. The window came down. She handed him the package and pointed back at me. I waved. He took the bag and rolled up the window.
I had missed the arrival of the blonde, but there she was. She was wearing a white skirt and blouse and her long hair was in a single braid that hung over her left shoulder. She was carrying a red purse over her right shoulder and looking around.
A few people passed her going in and out while I stood watching and the hot-dog lady returned. All the men looked at her, pretending not to look. The women were more open in their glances.
I moved around a pair of parked cars and approached the waiting woman, who had spotted me. She was a beauty. She wore no makeup and was probably in her late twenties. Her eyes were blue, her skin clear. There was even a good chance that the color of her hair was natural.
I held out the envelope. She took it without a word, put it in her purse and walked away. So did I.
I got in the Metro, pulled out onto Ringling and headed east. The Buick was a tactful distance behind me. I imagined my angel working on his second hot dog, cheek full, dropping relish on his lap as we drove.
There is a definite advantage in being the one who is followed rather than the one who follows. A good driver with a lot of nerve who knows the city could have lost the Buick in ten minutes even if the pursuing
driver was good at what he was doing. A decent driver with imagination could have lost him in fifteen minutes. Lewis Fonesca, who couldn’t speed and was unable to take chances in a car, took a little longer.
driver was good at what he was doing. A decent driver with imagination could have lost him in fifteen minutes. Lewis Fonesca, who couldn’t speed and was unable to take chances in a car, took a little longer.
I went down Ringling to Tuttle, turned right, drove to Bahia Vista and went back to the Trail, where I turned left and then right to get to the parking lot across from the medical office building. I drove up the ramp wondering if the Buick would follow me or just wait for me to come down. My guess was that he would have to follow. I could park and walk over the ramp to the hospital, but I needed the car. I could go out the other exit or try to sneak past him. I went to the top of the garage and then headed down, trying to decide what I should try. Worst case, I’d have to think of something else to do.
By this time he had to know I was trying to lose him. I went up and down for about five minutes till on my fourth or fifth pass by the front exit I saw four cars waiting to pull out. There was a slight space between the first and second cars. I forced my way into the open space. The Metro was small enough to do it with a little cooperation from the driver in the second car. The driver was a heavy old woman with glasses who had to strain her neck to see over the windshield. She didn’t seem to notice what I had done. I was sure the blue angel knew. He was now four cars behind me waiting to get out. When it was my turn, I turned right and then right again and drove the half-block to Osprey. Instead of turning either way, I went into the parking lot of the medical complex on my right. The lot was full. I drove to the rear where I knew there was a driveway to the buildings in back, found a space, parked and got out. The Geo couldn’t be seen from the street.
The Buick came to the corner and hesitated. Then he turned right and moved up Osprey looking for me.
When he was out of sight, I went back to the Metro
and got out of the lot before he came back. When I was reasonably sure I had lost him, I drove behind the Southgate Mall to the large Dumpsters. I took the gun out of the plastic bag, removed the remaining bullets, wiped the weapon clean, dropped it in my McDonald’s bag and, when I was sure I wasn’t being watched, dropped the bag into the nearest Dumpster, acting as if I were simply a good citizen getting rid of his lunch garbage.
and got out of the lot before he came back. When I was reasonably sure I had lost him, I drove behind the Southgate Mall to the large Dumpsters. I took the gun out of the plastic bag, removed the remaining bullets, wiped the weapon clean, dropped it in my McDonald’s bag and, when I was sure I wasn’t being watched, dropped the bag into the nearest Dumpster, acting as if I were simply a good citizen getting rid of his lunch garbage.
Eventually, I took the bridge across to St. Armand’s, drove straight up. Longboat Key, up Gulf of Mexico Drive and past both Pirannes’s high-rise on my left and the Sunnyside Condos on my right, where he docked the
Fair Maiden
. I drove on, hoping I had put John Pirannes out of my life.
Fair Maiden
. I drove on, hoping I had put John Pirannes out of my life.
I drove over the short bridge at the end of the key and went through the far less upscale and often ramshackle small hotels and rental houses along the water in Bradenton Beach. Ten minutes later, I spotted the sign for Barrington House and pulled into the shaded driveway. I parked on the white-crushed-shell-and-white-pebble lot, which held only tow other cars.
Barrington House was a white three-floor 1920s stucco-over-cement-block building with green wooden shutters. There were flowers behind a low picket fence and a sign to the right of the house pointing toward the entrance. I walked up the brick path for about a dozen steps and came to a door. I found myself inside a very large lodge-style living room with a carpeted, dark wooden staircase leading up to a small landing and, I assumed, rooms. There were bookcases whose shelves were filled and a chess table with checkers lined up and ready to go. The big fireplace was probably used no more than a few days during the central Florida winter.
I hit the bell on a desk by the corner next to a basket of wrapped bars of soap with a sketch of the house on the wrapper. I smelled a bar and was doing so when a
blond woman came bouncing in with a smile. She was about fifty and seemed to be full of an energy I didn’t feel. I put down the soap.
blond woman came bouncing in with a smile. She was about fifty and seemed to be full of an energy I didn’t feel. I put down the soap.
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