Retribution

9

Ed Viviase’s door was open. He stood in front of his desk, sitting back against it, a coffee cup in his hand. His glasses were off and lying on the desk next to a brown paper bag with grease spots showing through. Next to the bag was a manila folder. I don’t like manila folders. They contain too many surprises.

Viviase looked like a tired bulldog.

“This is Mickey Merrymen,” I said.

Viviase nodded and drank some coffee. He looked at both of us for a second and then motioned for us to take a seat in front of him. We did. He looked tired. I told him he did.

“Earache,” he said.

“Sony,” I answered.

“Not mine, Ernie’s. My wife just had some minor surgery, female stuff. I was up with Ernie all night. Medicine, tea, toast, antibiotics. That was after a trip to Emergency. Kid’s tough. He insists on going to school tomorrow. I haven’t had any sleep. Zero. Zilch. Nothing. So make this easy on me. I am in a very bad mood.”

“How old is Ernie?” I asked.

“Sixteen. Goes to Cardinal Mooney. I think he didn’t want to miss football practice. What the hell? Donut?”

He picked up the brown paper bag and held it toward us.

Mickey picked out a plain one with chocolate icing. I turned down the offer.

“You sure?” asked Viviase, reaching in for a puffy yellow one with red icing. “If you don’t want a donut, I’ve got a few other things in the bag that might interest you.”

“No, thanks,” I said, feeling something was coming. He was ignoring Mickey.

He settled the redicinged donut between his teeth and reached into the bag to pull out the turquoise seashell Jefferson and Conrad Lonsberg had given me the day before. He handed me the shell and then fished a spent bullet out of the bag. He handed me the bullet too.

Viviase took a bite out of his donut as he watched me. I looked at the two objects. Viviase drank. Mickey looked confused.

“Someone took a shot at you,” Viviase said. “Bang. End of Taurus window. We fished that,” he said, pointing at the bullet, “out of the backseat. Want to guess what ballistics matched it to?”

“The bullet that killed Bernard Corsello,” I said.

“Good guess,” said Viviase. “Want to make some more?”

“I don’t think I’ll be so friendly with the EZ Economy Car Rental Agency boys from now on.”

“They called in when they saw the bullet hole in the seat,” Viviase said. “Good citizens.”

“A couple of frightened men with a marginal business,” I said.

“All true,” said Viviase. “Now, why would the person who killed Corsello want to take a shot at you?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Let’s take a guess or two. By the way, that’s a nice shell. You don’t find many of them that color in that condition. My guess on who took the shot and why? You asked the wrong question to the wrong person, the person who killed Corsello, so he, she, or it decided to take a shot at you.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“I didn’t check this morning, but I don’t think you got a private investigator’s license in the last day or two or even applied for one.”

He finished his donut, slurring his last few words. Mickey was finished too.

“I was just asking questions for a friend,” I said.

“No idea who took a shot at you?”

I had a few ideas, but I didn’t want to share them with the police, so I said, “No.”

“Think they were trying to kill you or scare you?” he asked.

“I think they would have been happy either way.”

Viviase suddenly turned to Mickey who had been watching and listening, detached, a little dreamy. Viviase woke him up.

“You have a gun?”

“No,” said Mickey, sitting up.

“Your father owns a nine-millimeter,” Viviase said. “Hell, he owns four of them. One of them is missing.”

“Dad gets a little… confused sometimes. You know what I mean. It could be someplace he put it and forgot.”

“For the sake of argument,” said Viviase, now finishing his coffee, “let’s say coincidence suggests that someone took that nine-millimeter, shot your grandfather, and took a shot at Mr. Fonesca here. That make sense to you?”

“I didn’t take the gun,” Mickey said. “I don’t like guns. I don’t like dogs. I don’t like my father.”

“But,” Viviase said, “you like girls.”

“Yes,” said Mickey, looking at me, anticipating.

“Your father, in a moment of coherence, said you’ve been seeing a girl named Adele Hanford.”

I blinked my eyes to let Mickey know it was all right to answer the question. Viviase noted the exchange, folded his arms, and looked back at Mickey.

“I know Adele.”

“So do I,” said Viviase. “Smart girl.”

“Yes,” said Mickey.

“She doesn’t hate guns,” said the policeman, taking in both of us.

“I don’t know,” said Mickey.

“Who told you your grandfather was dead?”

“I…” Mickey looked at me again. It was close to time for a lawyer, but I blinked and he went on. “I don’t get along with my father. Nobody gets along with my father. But I’m the one who has to live with him. So I spend lots of time at my grandfather’s. I was going to spend the night. My father had his gun out, yelling at the old lady next door, talking to the dog. I don’t like the dog. He doesn’t like me. So, I went to my grandfather’s for the night and found him dead.”

“You were alone?” asked Viviase who turned to me and said, “Fonesca, if you blink, nod, even breathe, I book him on suspicion.”

Mickey looked confused but said, “I was alone. I found him, got scared, and ran. I knew he was dead. I thought… I thought maybe my father had killed him. They didn’t like each other. My father didn’t like my going to my grandfather’s.”

“They didn’t like each other,” Viviase repeated. “Can we escalate that to ‘hated each other’?”

“Esca… hate, yeah, I guess,” Mickey said. “But my father hates almost everybody.”

“And he has guns, your father?”

“Yes.”

“What would you say if I told you Adele’s fingerprints were all over your grandfather’s house, door, window, telephone?”

“Lawyer time,” I said.

Viviase looked at me and sighed.

“You want a lawyer? Why?”

“I think Mickey wants a lawyer,” I said.

“Why? I’m just asking questions. I haven’t accused him of a crime.”

“You didn’t have the time to check out all the fingerprints that must be in Corsello’s house. And given the size of your operation, I don’t think you checked the whole place.”

I knew, for certain, Adele’s fingerprints weren’t on the phone. I had wiped the phones clean. Viviase was bluffing.

“Adele wasn’t with me,” Mickey said.

“You want a lawyer?”

“You think I shot my grandfather?”

“No,” Viviase said. “But I’m a lousy judge of human character. I even like Fonesca. You’d be surprised at how many people I was sure were innocent turned out to be guilty and how many I was sure were guilty turned out innocent.”

“Are we finished?” I asked.

“Nope,” Viviase said, picking up his cup, remembering it was empty, and putting it down again. “We have more coincidences to talk about. Early this morning, one of our cars pulled over a car weaving all over Proctor. Driver was definitely DUI. The cop saw holes in the side of the van. He opened the van and found, guess what?”

“More nine-millimeter bullets,” I guessed.

“Want to know what they match?”

“The one in my car and the one that killed Corsello?”

“Good guess. Want to guess the DUI?”

“Florence Zink,” I said.

“Good. Let’s keep it up. You know, connect the dots. Corsello gets shot, someone shoots at you, pops Flo Zink’s car full of holes. All the same gun. What’s the common denominator here?”

I sat quietly and shrugged. Viviase looked at Mickey who probably didn’t know what a common denominator was.

“You miss the thirty-two-thousand-dollar question,” said Viviase. “The correct answer is Adele. Mickey’s girlfriend, Flo’s foster kid, your adopted delinquent. So, I ask you both, where is Adele?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Me either,” Mickey said.

“I’d really like to talk to her,” said Viviase. “The way it seems, and this is just speculation, a lot of people Adele knows have pissed her off and she’s going around shooting them.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“She go back on the streets? What?”

I shrugged.

“I do sort of like you, Lewie,” he said. “But it wouldn’t be hard to make you decide to leave Sarasota, or even leave Florida. I’d classify you as a petty annoyance but this business could move you up to major pain in the ass. You don’t want to be a pain in my ass. Not when I’m having a bad day.”

“I don’t, Etienne,” I said in response to his “Lewie.” “Can we go or…”

“You can go,” he said. “Not far. It might be easier, much easier if Adele just drops by to see me.”

“Where’s Flo?” I asked.

“In the tank,” said Viviase. “I talked to her. She asked me to find Adele. She also asked me to find Gus.”

“Gus?” asked Mickey.

“Flo’s husband,” I said. “She can find him in a grave in New Hampshire.”

“Want to see her?” asked Viviase.

“Yes,” I said.

He finally pushed himself away from the desk, took the bullet back, and let me keep the seashell.

“I’ll take care of it,” Viviase said. “Fonesca, she’s a tough old lady with bad taste in music. This is her second DUI in a week. If she doesn’t get sober and stay that way, she’s going to lose Adele. It might already be too late.”

I motioned for Mickey to rise with me.

“Thanks,” I said to Viviase.

“We’ll talk again soon,” he said, moving behind his desk, sitting down, and picking up the phone.

Mickey and I left the office and went into the hallway.

“What happened?” Mickey asked.

“He’s missing a piece and he wants Adele to fill it in,” I said.

“The stolen manuscripts?”

“Right. Walk back to my office. Wait for me there.”

He nodded as we got in the elevator and headed down. I stopped at the second floor. Mickey went down to ground level. Three minutes later I was signing Flo out of the drunk tank. She recognized me, looked away as I walked her out. She was a mess.

“I have a hangover,” she said as we left the lockup.

I held her big canvas bag that passed for a purse. It weighed at least fifteen pounds.

“You’re surprised?”

“I don’t usually have hangovers,” she said. “I just feel queasy, have a beer, and I’m all right.”

“A beer won’t help you this time,” I said.

“No,” she agreed as we stepped out into the street.

The sky was still overcast but it wasn’t raining.

“They won’t let me take my car,” she said. “I suppose that means I’ll never drive again.”

“Not legally,” I agreed, starting to walk.

“Where are we going?” she asked as I moved down the sidewalk.

“To get a car and take you home,” I said.

“I’ll be stranded there,” she wailed.

“You have money. There are cabs,” I said.

“You’re mad at me, Lewis,” she said.

“No,” I answered. “I’ve learned not to expect much from people so when they don’t deliver I’m not disappointed.”

“You’re disappointed in me?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “But I’m not judging you. I’ll take you home. You hide, wait till you hear from me, drink yourself to death, and hope I find Adele who’ll probably be taken away from you even if I do. If you find the old Flo, have her give me a call.”

We walked slowly down to the corner, turned left, and hit the EZ Economy Car Rental Agency in five or six minutes of silence.

“I look like shit,” Flo mumbled.

I said nothing as we went through the door. Alan was there handing keys to a customer, a young Hispanic in a trim suit carrying a briefcase.

“Fonesca,” Alan said, bright and false. “Your car’s ready.”

I held my hand out for the keys. Alan looked at Flo.

“The cops told you?” he guessed.

I said nothing.

“We had no choice,” Alan said. “You know what kind of profit margin we survive on here? I’ve got a kid starting college next year. Fred’s got a stomach he should donate to Johns Hopkins or the Smithsonian or Barnum and Bailey. We can’t afford to fool around with the law.”

“You’re forgiven,” I said. “Keys.”

He reached over to the rack of keys, selected the right one, and handed it to me.

“New key chain,” he said. “Windshield’s new. We patched the bullet hole. Can’t even see where it was.”

“How close did it come to hitting me?” I asked.

“Not very,” Alan said. “Passenger side about chest high.”

“Someone tried to kill you?” Flo said, coming a bit out of her fog.

“Someone shot at me,” I said.

“Because of Adele?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But that’s a good guess. Let’s go.

“Ten percent off on the next rental,” Alan called as I went out the door with Flo behind me.

Alan followed us out while I helped Flo in and went around to the driver’s side. I looked at Alan and said, “You could have called me before you called the police.”

Alan nodded.

I got in and drove off heading south. Flo wanted to talk but she didn’t have anything to say. I turned on the radio and got two thirty-year-olds talking about the best time of the day to have sex. I changed the station and got a woman psychologist who was setting up brick walls against sex. I wasn’t thinking about sex. I pushed another button and got Louis Prima and Keely Smith singing “That Old Black Magic.”

“What do I do while I’m waiting if I don’t drink?” Flo mumbled.

“Eat, look at the water, watch television, read a book, listen to your records,” I suggested.

“Without Adele, something’s missing. I fill the something with whiskey sours and gin and fruit.”

“Buy a business,” I suggested.

“What?”

“You’ve got money. Buy a business.”

“Gus and I had one. I didn’t like it. Got on my knees and said thanks to the Lord when he retired.”

“Buy one you like,” I said, turning west on Oak right near the DQ. We were in Washington Park, clearly marked, a neighborhood of upscale homes, some of the oldest and best maintained in Sarasota. It looks like an MGM 1940s street where Andy Hardy might have a girlfriend. When I wasn’t in a hurry I’d bicycle through Washington Park, driving back in time for a few blocks to Osprey, which I did now.

“Like what kind of business?”

“I don’t know. Get a small place that specializes in western records or open a little bar where you can get bands in to play country.”

“Good advice,” she said. “I’ll think about it. What about you?”

“Me?”

’Take a big step back to the land of the living,” she said. “Hold my hand. I’ll teach you to square-dance. You tell me to get a life. I’m telling you right back.”

She was right. I had no business telling Flo Zink how to live or die. We were silent the rest of the way to Flo’s.

“Think about it,” I said, pulling into her driveway. “And let me know if Adele calls.”

She opened the door.

“Want to come in for a drink? Beer for you. Sprite for me.”

“I don’t think…”

We could hear the phone inside ringing. Flo left the door of my car open and ran for the house. I got out, leaving my door open too, and followed her as she found her keys, scrambled in, and ran for the phone.

“Hello,” she said.

I stood next to her.

“Sorry? You’re sorry? You’ve got a goddamn good reason to be sorry,” Flo said, a bit of her old self emerging. “Where the hell are you? What the hell are you doing?… I was in jail all night. That’s where I was. That’s why I didn’t answer the fuckin’ phone… No, I’m all right. I won’t be driving for a while, probably never, but I’m all right. Are you coming back?… No, I just got some ramrod back and I’m asking you a question? I made it before you and I’ll make it again. I’ve got some plans… Yes, I want you back, but this old broad is getting flatter and softer since you started playing games again. I don’t much care for the woman you’re talking to, but I mean to… Fine, here he is. I’m going to take a bath and watch the boats from the deck and think about better times when Gus was alive and kicking ass.”

She looked angry now, more than a bit of the old Flo. She handed me the phone.

“Lew?” Adele asked.

“Yeah.”

“Is she all right?”

“No,” I said.

“Can you help her?”

“Can you?”

“I’m not finished,” Adele said. “I’ve got a lot of work left. You told him what I destroyed?”

“I told Lonsberg what you destroyed,” I said.

“How’s Mickey?”

“He’s confused,” I said. “He’s in my office waiting for me. Why don’t you meet us there?”

“I can’t,” she said. “I’m not done. There’s hurting to be done. Did you read Plugged Nickels?’ she asked.

“Some of it,” I said. “It’s not my kind of book.”

“Chapter six, first five paragraphs,” she said.

“What about them?”

“Read them,” she said.

“I’m getting too old for games, Adele,” I said.

“I was too old when I was twelve,” she said. “My father was screwing me and I was turned over to a pimp when I was thirteen, but you know all that. So a little game playing won’t hurt you or me. I missed out on game playing when I was growing up and going down.”

“I’ll read it,” I said. “But I’ve got a condition.”

“No more manuscripts destroyed. Not for a day or two. You bought time by helping Mickey.”

“Have you any idea who took a shot at me last night?” I asked.

“Son of a bitch shot at you?” she screamed. “Tell the legend I’m tearing two of his books right now. Tearing them and throwing them into the Gulf. Rains Rising and Childhood on Fire”

“I thought you weren’t going to destroy any more manuscripts. We have a truce.”

“Screw the truce,” she said. “You want to get killed? Mickey’s grandfather was a good man. So are you. Flo’s a good woman. Ames is…”

“But not you,” I said.

“No, not me,” she said soberly. “It’s in the genes and the jeans. He saw it in me. I thought I could be… What’s the use. Tell him the titles and take care of yourself and Flo and Mickey.”

“I didn’t sign on as a baby-sitter,” I said. “I signed on to find you. Come to my office. No strings. I won’t hold you. Just you, me, and Mickey.”

“Battery’s low,” she said. “Needs recharging. I’ll think about it.”

She hung up.

“Well?” asked Flo, brushing back her mess of hair.

“I don’t know,” I said. “She’s an angry girl.”

“Don’t I know it.”

I thought but didn’t say that Adele was going to get someone very hurt or very dead if she didn’t stop this mind game with Lonsberg. What I didn’t know was how soon I would find out how right I was.

When I got back to my office and opened the door Mickey Merrymen was against the wall. His father was in front of him, his fist raised ready to strike at an already bloody face.