Bright Futures

17

A lean white heron stood on one leg atop the rusting pickup truck on Zo Hirsch’s lawn. The bird looked at me, and I looked back. He considered putting his foot back down but changed his mind as I walked up the cracked concrete path to the front door.

“You,” Hirsch said opening the door and looking up at me.

“Me,” I admitted.

“You’ve got the papers, right? More courts and lawyers after me? Okay, bring it on.”

I handed him the envelope with the summons enclosed.

“They can’t get blood out of a banana and I’m a banana.”

“Your wife?” I asked.

“And the third-rate shortstop,” he said. “I made an offer they couldn’t refuse, and they refused it. I’m down to selling off some of my collection. Interested in buying a genuine Cleveland Indians sweatshirt once worn by Larry Doby?”

“How much?”

“Two thousand.”

“What do you have under a hundred?”

“Baseball autographed by George Altman, a Cub. Led the National League with twelve triples in 1962.”

“How much?”

“My pride is gone. I’ll take what you offer over fifty dollars.” I took out my wallet, found two twenties and a ten and handed it to him.

“Can we talk?” I asked.

“We are talking.”

“Can I come in?”

“What the hell.”

He pocketed the money and stood back to let me in. I moved into the living room and sat down. Black baseball players in poses and smiles looked down at me. Zo Hirsch, summons and the cash I had given him in hand, hurried off to the back of the house and returned almost immediately with the baseball. He tossed it to me. Then he sat in the chair across from mine.

“You want something to drink? I’m down to store-brand ersatz cola and root beer from a dollar store. It tastes vaguely like something besides tap water.”

“Tempting,” I said, “but no, thanks.”

“Simply put,” he said, “what do you want from me? There isn’t much left, but what there is, with the exception of a few treasures, is for sale.”

“Horvecki,” I said. “You were his only friend.”

“Friend,” he repeated the word, more to himself than to me. “We talked baseball, had drinks.”

“He talk about anything else? What did he care about?”

“Guns,” said Zo Hirsch, “and his daughter, Rachel. I only saw her a few times a couple of years ago. Cute kid, too skinny, didn’t talk. My ex-wife was not too skinny and she could talk, mostly in Spanish. She called me ‘Pequeno.’ You now what that means?”

“Little,” I said.

“At first she said it with a smile and a touch. Later she said it with a hiss and folded arms. A piece of work.”

“Horvecki,” I reminded him. “What else?”

“He liked the ladies. They didn’t like him. He paid for companionship. Come to think of it, so did I.”

Zo Hirsch sat back in the chair and drummed his fingers on the arms.

“Pine View and Bright Futures,” I said.

“Oh yeah, almost forgot. He hated them both. His kid got turned down by Pine View. He was determined to bring the school and that Bright Futures program down. He didn’t talk about it much, but when he did, that was what he said. He supplemented his daughter’s education by teaching her how to ride, shoot, learn his truth about history, which was wacky. Next question.”

“Wacky?”

“Phil had a long list of groups he hated. The School Board, the ACLU, the Demo cratic Party, lawyers, psychiatrists, teamsters, television writers, professional tennis players-”

“Enough,” I said. “I get it.”

“You gotta give him credit,” said Zo Hirsch. “The man knew how to hate.”

“Your friend?”

“No,” he said. “But the man knew baseball.”

“He was ruthless in business,” I said. “He was a giant five-story steamroller in business. He crushed and was proud of it.”

“What was in it for you?”

Zo Hirsch squirmed a little in his seat, shook his head and looked toward the recently repaired front window.

“He bought baseball memorabilia from me, paid more than top dollar, never even questioned authenticity. Philip Horvecki was a substantial part of my income.”

“He was a-”

“Sucker,” said Zo Hirsch, “but he knew it. I think he was buying a friend. I was happy to sell. The guy really did know baseball and he served good lunches.”

“Why you? There are plenty of people for sale.”

“He liked showing me off,” said Zo Hirsch. “It made people uncomfortable. A little black man. He liked making people uncomfortable. One more question. Then I’ve got to go see my lawyer to find out if there’s anything to salvage. I hope he suggests that I hire a hit man and get rid of my ex-wife and the shortstop. You on that bicycle again?”

“No. I’ve got a car.”

“Good. You can give me a ride. On the way, I’ll give you my all-time favorite Cubs lineup and you can do the same.”

I put the slightly tarnished George Altman autographed ball in the glove compartment and drove Zo Hirsch to an office building on Orange, just north of Ringling.

When Hirsch got out of the car, he hesitated and said, “Phil Horvecki was a shit, but he was my friend, sort of, the poor bastard.”

I watched him walk to the big double-thick glass doors and reach up for the handle. He pulled the door open with dignity and strength and disappeared inside.

I wondered how he planned to get back home.

After I called her, Alana Legerman met me at the FourGees Coffee Shop on Beneva and Webber. She was reluctant. I was persuasive. I didn’t try to tell her that I was still trying to save Ronnie. I told her I wanted to talk to her about her son.

The lunch crowd had cleared out. I had a choice of the bright, sunny room where there were small tables, but I chose the back room, dark and minimally plush, with music piped in at a level where one could still have a conversation.

She came in after I did, just as the last customers, three women, moved out of the side room and left. She saw me, walked over, and sat, hands in her lap. She wore a light blue dress with short sleeves and a black belt with a big silver buckle. She was doing Grace Kelly ice princess, and she was good at it.

“I’m waiting,” she said.

A lean girl, barely out of her teens, came in to take our order.

“Coffee and a scone,” I said.

“Prune?”

“Plain.”

The waitress turned to Alana, who said, “Tea, mint.”

“That’s it?” asked the girl.

I said it was, and Alana went back to her patient waiting pose.

“Does Greg own a pellet rifle?”

“My son owns whatever he wants. His grandfather doesn’t deny him anything.”

“So, he owns a pellet rifle?”

She shrugged.

“Who knows? I’ve never seen him with one.”

“Why does Greg want to save Ronnie Gerall?”

“They’re friends. That’s how I had the bad fortune to meet Ronnie.”

“What kind of friends?” I asked.

This time she cocked her head back in a becoming look of surprise.

“You’re suggesting my son and Ronnie had a homosexual relationship?”

“No. That didn’t occur to me, but I’ll think about it. Did Ronnie rule in their relationship?”

“Probably,” she said.

“Have you ever seen Ronnie act violent?”

“No.”

“Does Greg have any other friends besides Winston Graeme?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“When did they become friends?”

“About a year ago. No, two years ago. Winn Graeme is very protective of my son. My father and I are both very grateful for it, though I must confess that I don’t understand why the boy puts up with Greg.”

“Greg keeps punching him in the arm,” I said.

“A token of my son’s inability to come up with a painless way of expressing his friendship. His therapist assures me that when he gets to Duke he will mature. What is this all about?”

Our coffee and tea came. I picked up the check. We drank in silence for a few seconds, and then I said, “Does Greg write poetry?”

“Poetry? You ask the damnedest questions. Greg writes poetry, short stories, does sketches and paintings that could earn him a scholarship, and he reads at a rate that is not a treat to watch. He doesn’t just read. He devours books.”

“Do you and your father want Ronnie to go to prison for murder?”

“We’ll be satisfied to have him sent away for pretending to be a high school student or, better yet, whatever he did in Texas that he and his wife ran away from.”

“Your whole family hired me to find evidence that he didn’t kill Horvecki.”

“My father and I have changed our minds,” she said, finishing her coffee. “The job has changed. If you find evidence that he killed Horvecki or that other man…”

“Blue Berrigan.”

“Blue Berrigan,” she repeated with a shake of her head. “What kind of people have we gotten ourselves involved with? No answer is required.”

I gave none.

“Are we finished?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. I have another appointment.”

She got up, picked up her purse, and said, “Nail the bastard.”

“Someone else said the same thing.”

“A woman?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Of course,” she said and strode away.

When she was gone, I made a call and got through after two rings.

“This is Lew Fonesca.”

“I know,” said Winn Graeme.

“I’d like to see you.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Where?”

“FourGees. It’s-”

“I know where it is. You have something?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“I’ll be right there.”

I had a refill of coffee and waited, listening to Rufus Wainwright sing “Not Ready To Love.”

It took him twenty-five minutes before he came into the backroom. He adjusted his glasses to be sure I was the person he was looking for.

“I’m missing golf practice,” he said, sitting down in the same seat Alana Legerman had been in. “I had to tell the coach and tell him my mother called and said she wasn’t feeling well.”

“He believed you?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t call me a liar. I don’t like lying. What’s going on? Why isn’t Greg here?”

“You go everywhere together?”

“Pretty much,” he said. “We’re friends.”

The waitress came back to take our order and get a good look at Winn Graeme.

“Are you Winston Graeme?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I saw you play Riverview,” she said. “You had twenty-four points. My boyfriend was Terry Beacham, but we’re not together anymore.”

It was a clear invitation, but not to Winn, who said, “You have a caffeine-free diet cola?”

“Just Diet Coke.”

“I’ll have that,” he said, looking at me and not at the girl, who got the message and moved away.

She had forgotten to ask if I wanted a refill or something else.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why what?”

“Why are you and Greg friends?”

“He’s smart and we get along. Sometimes you can’t explain things like friendship.”

“I think I can explain it,” I said. “How much does Greg’s grandfather pay you to take care of his grandson and pretend to be his friend.”

Winn put his head down and then brought it up, adjusting his glasses again.

“Mr. Corkle pays me fifteen hundred dollars a month in cash.”

“How long has he been doing this?”

“Since Greg’s sixteenth birthday party. My father lost his job when I was fifteen. He had a drinking problem. He was sixty-one when he lost the job. Since then he’s made some money at home on his eBay trades. Some money, but not a lot, and my mother stands on her feet eight hours a day selling clothes at Beals. I need a scholarship. I need Bright Futures. I need fifteen hundred dollars a month. Wherever Greg goes to college, I’ll go to college so the money won’t stop.”

“What else would you like?”

“I’d like it if Greg didn’t find out about his mother and Ronnie and about me taking money from his grandfather.”

“You think I’ll tell him?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“I won’t tell him. You own a pellet gun?”

“No, why?”

“Someone’s been trying to shoot me with one.”

“If I were trying to shoot you would I tell you I had a gun?” he asked.

“Good point. People sometimes admit things they shouldn’t.”

A man in his late forties or early fifties and a woman who might have been his daughter came in the back room. He was wearing a business suit and tie. She was wearing less than she should have been. The man looked at Winn Graeme and me. Then the two of them sat on a sofa in the shadows under the speaker.

“You know that girl?” I asked.

“Why?”

“She nodded at you.”

Winn shook his head before saying, “I know her. She graduated from Riverview last year. She was a cheerleader. Her name is Hope something.”

“Small town,” I said, looking at the pair, who were whispering now, the girl shaking her head.

“That’s not her father,” Winn said.

“How do you know?”

“That’s Mr. Milikin, lawyer downtown. Wife, four kids. He’s on the board of everything in the county.”

I looked at the couple. Mr. Milikin looked as if he were perspiring. His eyes darted toward the archway leading into the other room. He didn’t want to see any familiar faces.

“Ronnie’s going to be like that if he lives long enough,” Winn said.

“Like Milikin?”

“No.”

“Horvecki,” I said.

“We didn’t kill him.”

“We?”

“Greg and I. We tried to talk to him a few times. So did others. Didn’t do any good.”

“You went to his house?”

“Once. He wouldn’t let us in, threatened to call the police if we didn’t go away. He said he had the right to bear arms and protect himself, his family, and his property. He said, ‘Under my roof, we know how to use a gun!’ ”

“And?”

“We went away. Is that all?”

I looked at him and he forced himself to look back for an instant before giving his glasses another adjustment.

“That’s all,” I said.

Winn Graeme stood up, started to turn, and then turned back to me to say, “Don’t hurt Greg.”

“That a warning?”

“A plea.”

He didn’t look toward Mr. Milikin and the former cheerleader as he left. The girl glanced at him, but Milikin was so busy pleading his case that he didn’t notice. He just kept perspiring.

I had almost enough information now. There was only one more person I had to see. I paid the waitress, who said, “He’s a fantastic basketball player. Jumps like a black guy. You know where he’s going to college?”

“Yes,” I said and went around the tables and through the door.

I was careful. I could have been more careful. Ann Hurwitz would know why I didn’t exercise more caution. Pellets might fly. I might catch one in the eye like Augustine. I was reasonably sure of who the shooter would be, but Augustine was the person who could make it a certainty.

The shot didn’t come until I opened the door to get into the Saturn, which was wedged between two SUVs at the far end of the lot, a few spaces from the exit on Webber.

The shot didn’t come from a pellet gun.

The first bullet shattered the driver side window showering shards on the seat. I turned to look in the direction from which I thought the bullet had been fired.

Something came at me from around one of the SUVs. It hit me, knocked me backward to the ground, and landed on me. I panted for breath. A second shot came but I didn’t hear it hit the ground or my car or the pavement.

I lay there for a beat, the weight on my chest and stomach, an arm covering my chest, and looked up to see, inches from my nose, Victor Woo.

“You all right?” he asked.

I tried to answer but couldn’t speak. He understood and rolled off to the side. I started to get up but he held a hand out to keep me down. He listened, watched for about half a minute, and then helped me up.

“He’s gone,” he said.

The shooter wasn’t trying to frighten me off anymore. We had gone beyond that, to murder.

“I followed you,” Victor said at my side.

“Thanks,” I said trying to catch my breath.

“That last shot might have killed you,” he said.

“Might have, yes,” I acknowledged.

“It would have hit you.”

He was trying to make a point, but I wasn’t sure what it was. He turned around so I could see where the bullet had entered his right arm through the red Florida State University sweatshirt he was wearing, the arm he had draped over my chest. There was remarkably little blood.

“It ricocheted off the ground before it hit me,” he said.

“I’ll drive you to the ER.”

“No,” he said. “I’ll stop somewhere, clean it, put on a bandage and some tape. The bullet just scratched my arm. It’s not inside me.”

Cliches abound from old movies. “It’s just a flesh wound.” “I’ve had worse bites from a Louisiana mosquito.”

“Suit yourself,” I said.

“I want to go home,” he said. “I saved your life. It is all I can do. It doesn’t make up for killing your wife, but it’s all I can do.”

“I forgave you for killing Catherine.”

“But when you said it before, you didn’t mean it,” he said. “This time you do. I’ve been away from home too long.”

I reached out to shake his hand. He winced as he briefly held my grip.

“My bedroll is in my car,” he added. “I’m leaving from here. If I can ever be of any service…”

“I know where to find you,” I said, but we both knew I would never call.

“You know who’s trying to kill you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Stop them,” he said.

And he was gone. I held up my hands. I felt calm, but my hands were both shaking. Can the body be afraid when the mind isn’t? I knew the mind could be afraid when the body of a policeman went through the door of an apartment where a crazed father held a gun to his ten-year-old daughter’s head, or when a fireman made a dash into a burning building where he heard the cry of a cat. It was a question for Ann.

When I opened the car door, I saw the folded sheet of paper with the words:

I whisper your name in the book of one more tomorrow knowing your yesterdays were filled with sorrow.

Migrating birds soar South then North again.

North into night flying over your solitary den.

Luck will not last.

Move fast.

Move past.

Thou hast

No more tomorrows.

I cleaned up as much of the glass on the seat and the floor as I could and got in my car. Once I was seated I saw more shining shards on the passenger seat. I swept them on the floor with my hand and called Ames.

“Real bullets this time,” I said.

“You all right?”

“Yes.”

“Same shooter?”

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure. Where are you?”

“The office.”

“I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. A weapon would be in order.”

“Got one,” he said.

When I got to the house, Ames was coming down the steps. The day was cool enough that his lightweight leather jacket wouldn’t draw attention and whatever weapon he was carrying would remain hidden.

“Watch out for the glass,” I said as he started to get in the car.

“I’ll fix that window when we’re done,” he said swiping away at some of the glass bits I had missed.

He sat, looked at me and said, “Let’s do it.”