Bright Futures

14

He wasn’t wearing his uniform when he came through my door that night. The door had been locked, but Essau Williams was a cop. There are many ways to get through a locked door, short of breaking it down. Besides, most people carefully lock their doors at night but leave their windows open with only a thin screen to protect them.

I was lying in bed, my eyes closed, my reading lamp still burning on the chair next to my bed. I had fallen asleep with a book on my chest. The book was a list of boys’ names and their meaning. Lewis means “fame and war.” I hadn’t looked up Essau.

He grabbed me by my blue Chicago cubs sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and lifted me from the bed. We were face-to-face. There was no anger in his face. There was nothing but frigid appraisal. Before he had come in, and before I fell asleep, I was considering a last stop in the restroom. Now I had to pee. I had to pee very badly. I did not tell him.

“I did not kill Horvecki,” he said.

“Okay,” I said.

“The Gerall kid did it. Don’t come to my house again.”

I didn’t answer. I had nothing to say.

“You understand?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Say what you’ve got to say,” Essau said.

He hadn’t addressed that to me but to someone I now made out in the darkness near the door. Jack Pepper, Reverend of the Self-Proclaimed Ministers of God, stepped forward.

“Do you know who killed Philip Horvecki?” asked Pepper, every bit as calm as Essau Williams who stepped back from me but continued wearing a look of menace. He had it down. He was playing bad cop to Pepper’s good Reverend. Or maybe he wasn’t playing.

“Was it Ronald Gerall?”

“I don’t think it was Gerall.”

“If you discover who the person was who killed the bastard of hell, you will call one of us,” said Pepper stepping forward. “But it might be best if no one finds out who did it. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“But if you find the avenging angel-,” Pepper began.

“I call you so you can do what?” I asked.

“Protect him,” said Pepper. “The killing was not murder. Whoever did it, it was an execution. You find him. You tell us. You go about your business. You understand?”

I nodded, but the nod was too small and went unseen in the darkness.

“Understood?” asked Essau Williams.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good,” said Pepper.

“No,” I said. “I understand, but I won’t do it.”

Essau Williams got a one-handed grip on my already crumpled shirt.

“You could have lied to us,” said Pepper. “You’re an honest man. But honesty is not always its own reward.”

“I have a question,” I said.

“Yes?” asked Pepper.

“How did you two team up?”

“In search of retribution from the system of men,” said Pepper, “we’ve encountered each other through the years in our several attempts at trying to seek justice for our families and punishment for Philip Horvecki.”

“Find him, tell us,” said Essau.

“We decided that neither of us would exact physical retribution,” Pepper continued ignoring Essau Williams. “But if someone were to do so, we would put the full extent of our gratitude toward him and pray for the mercy of Jesus upon him.”

“ You would pray for the mercy of Jesus,” Essau Williams amended.

“What will you do?” asked Pepper, now only a few feet from me.

“Get a lock for my door,” I said.

Silence. I prepared to be hit, as well as anyone can prepare. The instant the blow came I would go with it, fall back. Then again, Essau Williams might simply decide to strangle me.

“You’re not afraid,” Pepper said.

“No.”

“You know you are in the hands of Jesus,” said Pepper.

“No.”

“Then…?” Pepper asked.

“I have another question,” I said.

“What?” asked Pepper.

“Do you have a favorite first line from a book?”

“ ‘Behold, I send my messenger before thy face, which shall prepare thy way before thee. Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.’ The Gospel according to St. Mark.”

“You left out a little,” I said.

“What the fuck is this?” Williams said. “Are you both crazy?”

“I was going to ask the same thing,” I said.

“We have a damn good reason if we are, Philip Horvecki. What’s your damn good reason?”

“There’s someone in the dark,” I said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Williams said.

“Me,” came the voice from the door.

Victor Woo had entered while they were doing their best to intimidate me.

Williams and Pepper turned toward the door. Victor flipped on the light switch. He was barefoot, wearing clean jeans and an orange University of Illinois sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up. In his right hand was the old aluminum softball bat I’d found in the closet when I moved in here.

I could see now that Williams was also wearing jeans. His long-sleeve T-shirt was solid blue. Pepper, pale, his straw hair slightly tousled, wore brown slacks and a white shirt and tie. I wore my underpants with the penguins and my Cubs sweatshirt with the cut-off sleeves. No one wore a smile.

“Victor batted leadoff for two Tigers farm teams,” I said.

I might analyze that instant lie sometime later with Ann Hurwitz. Anyway, it didn’t seem to have any effect on my visitors.

“We’ve said what we have to say,” Pepper said calmly.

“You can put the bat down, Jet Li,” said Essau Williams.

Victor moved away from the door so they could pass. Pepper went out first. Williams paused at the door and said, “‘Once upon a time, there were three bears, a papa bear, a momma bear, and a baby bear.’ A favorite first line. My mother used to tell me that one when I was a baby. That was long after Philip Horvecki raped her and my aunt, and long before he came back eight years ago and turned her and my aunt into cowering old women and ended my family’s history.”

He closed the door behind him. Victor followed them out to be sure they left and then returned, bat still in hand.

“Tea?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. “You?”

“I don’t like tea,” he said. “But I have Oreo cookies and milk.”

“That’ll work for me.”

We woke Dwight Torcelli, who was sleeping on a blanket in the room next to mine. Victor had been in that room, too, lying on his bedroll in front of the door to keep Torcelli from deciding to wander. There was a strip of white tape across his swollen nose. The skin under both of his eyes had turned purple. I almost apologized, but I wouldn’t have meant it.

“What?” he asked sitting up, blinking, not sure of where he was, and then slowly understanding.

“You had visitors,” I said. “You missed them. Victor and I are going to have Oreo cookies and milk. Want to join us?”

“I guess,” he said, looking at me and then at Victor, who still bore his softball bat.

I was reasonably sure now who was responsible for the death of both Philip Horvecki and Blue Berrigan. When I got up in the morning, I’d share my thoughts with Ames.

I checked the clock when we went back into the room where my desk sat. It was almost three in the morning.

We had cookies and milk.

I was up by six. I showered, shaved, shampooed what little hair I have remaining with a giant container of no-name shampoo-conditioner purchased at a dollar store, and examined the scratches on my face. It didn’t look as bad as I thought it would. I certainly looked better than Jeff Augustine.

I was dressed in my jeans and a fresh green short-sleeve knit shirt with a collar. It didn’t go well with my blue and red Cubs cap, but I had no plans for meeting royalty. If I did run into any, I could tuck my cap away. Lewis Fonesca was prepared for anything except intruders, unbidden emotions, disarming surprises, life’s horrors, and the pain and death of others.

When Ames and Darrell Caton walked in together just before eight, I was eating an Oreo cookie with the full understanding that I would have to brush my teeth again.

“Met him downstairs,” Ames explained.

“Takes me a while to get up the stairs since I got shot with an Uzi,” said Darrell.

“It was a pellet gun,” Ames said.

“Shot is shot,” said Darrell. “I can’t go around telling people I was in the hospital for three days because I was shot in the back with a BB.”

“Guess not,” said Ames.

It was obvious Ames and Darrell liked each other, though I couldn’t quite figure out what the essence of that friendship might be.

“Cookies?” I asked.

Both Darrell and Ames took one.

“He safe?” asked Ames, pointing at the door of the second bedroom.

“Victor’s in there with him,” I said.

“With who?” asked Darrell.

“Visitor,” I said.

“You’re my big brother, big sister, uncle, Santa, whatever,” said Darrell. “You’re supposed to tell me things. Share confidences, you know?”

“You’re getting a bit old to have a big brother,” said Ames. “And what are you doing roaming the streets when you’re supposed to be in bed.”

“Okay,” said Darrell, “we’ll call it even. Then we’re…”

“Friends,” said Ames.

“Friends,” I agreed.

“Sometimes I think my mother would rather have me hang with safer friends, like drug dealers and gangbangers.”

I offered him another cookie. He took it. Ames decided one was enough.

“Let’s get some breakfast,” Ames said. “We can bring something back for Victor and our guest.”

“You two are playing with me,” Darrell said. “That’s it, right?”

“No,” I said. “Let’s go downstairs slowly and walk over to the Waffle Shop and I’ll tell you the story about two night visitors.”

“No,” said Darrell, “I know that one. Amal and camels. I know that shit.”

“This one,” I said, “is about different night visitors. I think you’ll both like it.”

“Okay,” said Darrell. “Let’s get waffles.”

It was Saturday morning, bright, sunny, cloudless, Floridian-winter cool. No one shot at us as we walked down the stairs, Ames in front, Darrell second, me in the rear. Darrell moved slowly, wincing, trying to cover it. We were only two blocks from the Waffle Shop but I suggested we drive. Darrell said no.

When we entered the Waffle Shop it was crowded, but a family of four was just getting up from a table at the front window. We waited, then sat, and I pretended to look at the menu, which both Ames and I had long ago memorized.

Greg Legerman and Winn Graeme came in about two minutes later, looked around, saw us, and headed for our table.

Greg and Winn stood next to our table. Greg’s arms were folded over his chest, his look a demand before he spoke.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“Greg, Winn, this is Darrell Caton,” I said by way of introduction. “He was shot and almost killed on the steps of my office a few days ago.”

For a beat they both looked at Darrell who held out his hand. First Greg, and then Winn, took the extended hand.

“They look kind of shook,” said Darrell first to me and then to Ames. “One of them shoot me?”

“Possible,” said Ames.

“This won’t work,” said Greg. “You are working for everyone in my family and you owe me the information first. We’re worried about Ronnie.”

“We?” I asked.

Greg and Winn had to pull in close to the table as one of Gwen’s daughters came by with an armful of platters, calling, “Out of the way.”

“We,” Greg repeated. “Me, Winn, my mother, my grandfather. We.”

“Find a seat,” the now-platterless waitress said just above the patter of the other customers.

She said it with a smile, a warm voice, and a hand on Winn’s shoulder, but it was a command.

“Sit,” Ames said.

They sat, losing the supposed advantage of our looking up at them.

“I’ll be right back for your order,” the daughter said. “Coffee?”

“Yes,” said Greg.

“Orange juice,” said Winn.

“How’d you know Ames and I were here?” I asked.

“Went to your place,” Greg said. “Your car, the Chinese guy’s car, and the old cowboy’s scooter were there. The Chinese guy wouldn’t let us in, said you were out for breakfast, so we…”

“His name is Victor,” said Ames. “Victor Woo. Mr. Woo till he tells you to call him otherwise.”

Ames was calm, but I knew by the number of words he had used that he was not pleased by our new breakfast companions. The only one who had spoken less was Winn Graeme, who sat reasonably erect and adjusted his glasses.

“We didn’t mean any disrespect,” said Greg. “I’m a flaming all-inclusive open-the-borders liberal. Right, Winn?”

He gave Winn a shoulder pop with his fist. Winn nodded to confirm Greg’s political assessment.

“My mother bailed Ronnie out,” Greg said. “We all hired you. We want to know what’s going on.”

“His name isn’t Ronnie,” I said.

“What?” asked Greg.

“His name is Dwight Torcelli,” I said. “He’s twenty-six years old and he’s married to Philip Horvecki’s daughter.”

Greg looked stunned. Winn sat silently. It was time again to adjust his glasses.

“Your mother wants to know where he is?” asked Ames.

Greg looked at Ames as if Ames had not been paying attention.

“My mother…”

He was interrupted by Gwen’s daughter bringing breakfast for Darrell, Ames, and me, orange juice for Winn and coffee for whoever wanted it. Darrell, Ames, and I were all having the waffle special with eggs and three slices of bacon.

“Go ahead,” said Greg. “We don’t mind if you eat.”

He said the last part of this after the three of us had already begun to eat.

“Okay,” came a shout above the voices and clattering plates and cups. “Listen up.”

Two tables from us, a trucker in a blue baseball cap and a denim vest over his T-shirt was standing and waiting for attention. His beard was just beyond stubble and he looked more than serious.

“My friend here says Elvis never ate here, that Gwen’s mother just put up that poster and the sign.”

“That’s right,” said the friend, now standing.

He was shorter than the other guy but in better shape, biceps like cement.

“February 21, 1956, Elvis played the Florida Theater in Sarasota,” said Winn aloud. “He had breakfast here on the morning of February 22 and headed immediately for an appearance that night in Waycross, Georgia.”

The breakfast crowd applauded.

“The kid don’t know shit,” the muscled trucker said, with a special emphasis on the word “shit.”

The restaurant went silent.

Gwen’s other daughter, the one with two babies and another on the way, was behind the counter where I usually had breakfast.

“You calling my family liars?” she said.

“My grandfather was here when Elvis came in,” said Winn.

“Bullshit,” said the trucker.

“His grandfather’s still alive and almost ninety-five,” added Greg. “Reverend Graeme of the First Episcopalian Church of Christ the Redeemer would, I’m sure, be happy to come by and settle this.”

People began to applaud and laugh. The defeated trucker mumbled a few obscenities and sat down as the first trucker raised a hand in historic triumph.

“Your grandfather really in here when Elvis came in?” asked Darrell.

“Don’t see how he could have been,” said Greg. “He was in Korea.”

“Yes,” said Winn.

“And,” added Greg, favoring his friend with another punch in the arm, “he’s dead and he wasn’t Reverend Graeme. He was Russell Graeme, co-owner of Graeme-Sydney Chrysler Motors in Sydney, Australia.”

Greg was grinning.

Darrell mumbled something to himself and went on eating. I was sitting next to him and heard, though no one else did.

“Rich white kids,” Darrell had said.

“That the truth about Ronnie?” asked Winn.

“Truth,” I said.

“Why do you want to find him?” asked Ames.

“To talk to him about getting a new lawyer,” Greg said leaning forward. “My grandfather said he’ll pay to get the best available defense team in the nation. The plan was for us to set it up with Ronnie and you keep looking for whoever killed Horvecki. But he’s not Ronnie. I don’t understand.”

“What about Berrigan?” asked Ames.

“Berrigan?” asked Greg.

Gwen’s daughter, the one who had waited on us, touched Winn’s shoulder and quietly said, “Your breakfasts are all on the house.”

Then she moved away to the waving hand of a customer who wanted more coffee or his check.

“Blue Berrigan,” I said.

“What kind of name is that?” asked Greg.

“Dead man’s,” said Ames.

Winn Graeme’s eyes were closed for an instant. Then he removed his glasses, opened his eyes and put the glasses back on.

“The singer?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Where? When did he…?” asked Greg.

“Day ago,” said Ames. “Beaten in his car.”

Darrell was giving his full attention to the conversation now.

“Who is Blue Bennignan?” Darrell asked.

“Berrigan,” Winn corrected. “I used to watch his show when I was a kid. My mother took me to see him when he was at the Opera House in Sydney when I was six.”

“You going to cry?” Greg asked his friend in disbelief before looking around the table to see if anyone else found this particularly bizarre. No one seemed to.

“I know a guy in a gang in Palmetto called Black Brain-banger,” said Darrell. “And there’s a whore up on the Trail goes by Red Alice because…”

“Her hair’s red?” said Ames.

“You know her?” asked Darrell.

Ames took it and Darrell laughed.

“Got you, old cowboy,” Darrell said.

Ames gave a small shake of his head. No one joined the laughter.

Darrell looked and me and said, “I’m just breaking it down and bringing it down Fonesca. Lightening it up, you know what I’m saying?”

Unordered breakfasts for both Greg and Winn arrived, the same thing all of us had.

“Anything Ronnie needs?” asked Greg.

“His name is Dwight Torcelli,” Winn said.

“The best criminal defense attorney in the United States would help,” I said.

We ate for a while, and I thought in silence.

Then Darrell whispered to me, “You don’t need more money? I do. Rich white boys probably have their pockets full of twenties. You take it, give it to me. I keep a little and give the rest to my mother.”

I shook my head, but it didn’t stop him. He whispered to me as he finished his breakfast.

“I took a bullet in the back for you, Fonesca,” he said.

“Pellet,” I said. “Maybe you were the one being shot at.”

“People from my part of town don’t use pellets and BBs after they’re five years old. They don’t shoot people with toys. Someone after me’d have a serious weapon.”

“Because you’re so bad?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I’m just saying.”

“You didn’t tell people you got shot with a pellet gun.”

“Hell no.”

After we were finished with breakfast, Greg and Winn stood, and Greg said, “You’ll let me know?”

“I’ll let you know,” I said, though at this point I wasn’t sure about what it was I would be letting him know about.

“Sorry,” said Winn, though at this point I wasn’t completely sure what it was he was sorry about.

When they left, Ames finished a second cup of coffee and said, “Smart boys.”

I wasn’t sure how he meant it, and I wasn’t going to ask him to explain.

We picked up carryout breakfasts for Victor and Torcelli. The same truckers we had seen earlier were in line behind us at the cash register.

The one with muscles and, I could now see, fading tattoos on his arms, said to Ames, “Your grandkids cost me forty bucks.”

I touched Ames’s arm in the hope that he wouldn’t respond, but he said, “Cost yourself forty dollars.”

“Not the way I see it,” said the trucker.

“Let it go, Ben,” said the trucker who had won the bet.

“You let it go, Teek. Easy for you. You won. Way I see it, old bones here owes me.”

It was our turn to pay now. I handed over cash for the carry-out to Gwen’s daughter at the register. She pushed it back to me.

“Ames owes you shit,” said Darrell. “Right, Fonesca?”

“Right,” I said.

“Mess with Ames, he’ll shoot your ass,” Darrell said. “Mess with Fonesca he’ll break your nose. Ames shot and killed a man and Fonesca just broke a fool’s nose.”

“That a fact?” said Ben the trucker with the biceps.

“Fact,” Darrell said.

The trucker reached for Darrell. Ames put his arm in the way.

“You want to take this outside,” said Ames. “I’ll accommodate.”

I led our happy band out the door.

“Parking lot,” said Ben.

“I’m having no part,” said Teek.

When we got to the parking lot next to the restaurant, Ames opened his jacket so Ben could see an old, but very large, well cleaned, and shining pistol tucked into his belt.

“Bullshit,” said Ben, now glaring. He took a step toward Ames, who calmly removed the weapon from his belt and fired into the ground at the trucker’s feet.

“Another step and you’ll be on your way to the emergency room,” said Ames.

“He means it,” I said.

Ben backed away three steps and raised a fist, but didn’t say anything.

Teek took Ben’s arm and started to pull him away.

“Crazy old fucker,” said Ben, looking over his shoulder as he wisely allowed himself to be escorted from the lot.

I didn’t ask either trucker if they had a favorite first line from a book.

“You did him, Ames,” said Darrell holding up his right hand for a high five, which Ames didn’t deliver.

“Best we go now,” Ames said.

“Best,” I agreed.