Retribution

10

At this point I want to make some things clear. First, I am in reasonably good physical shape. I bicycle. I work out four or five times a week. I’m a little on the thin side, a bit taller than short, and I don’t have the kind of face that tells people violence lurks behind it ready to explode at some minor infraction of my space or sentiments.

I could also add at this point that I don’t do violence. Most sane and sober human beings could say the same things, but I’ve seen and imagined too much violence from that very active minority of violent humanity. I couldn’t hit anyone. I won’t carry a gun.

Ann Horowitz once asked me what I would do if my own life or the life of a loved one were being immediately threatened. I said I would try to save them, but there was no sincerity or passion in my answer. Yes, I would try to save them and I had no intention of letting myself be killed without trying to do something about it. It was the extreme situation Ann had given. Most violent situations did not push me into a corner of the extreme.

And so instead of leaping forward, turning Merrymen around, and slamming my fist into his nose or throat, I shouted, “No.”

Merrymen’s fist froze in the air and he turned from his son toward me. Mickey slumped back against the wall.

“They think I killed that old fart,” he said, advancing on me. “You and Mickey gave them the idea that I killed Charlie. The cop told me.”

Viviase was doing what a good cop should do when he wasn’t sure where he was going. He was throwing dust in the air and seeing if it bothered someone enough to lead to answers. In this case, he had turned loose a less than fully sane Michael Merrymen with the idea that his son and I had pointed the finger at him. He wasn’t completely wrong.

The fist was up and ready. My plan, to the extent that I had one, was to get through the door and run. There was a flaw in the plan. Either Merrymen would come after me, and I doubted that he could catch me, or he would turn back on Mickey whose teeth were red with blood.

I wasn’t sure I liked Mickey, but I was sure I was not going to run out on him. If the Lone Ranger hadn’t shown up, I was going to be beaten into something like Tropicana orange pulp, or I’d get in a good or lucky punch and stop Merrymen.

The Lone Ranger arrived. He stepped into the room standing tall, unmasked, years older than I had remembered him from television.

Ames took in the story as he stepped into the room. Just as Merrymen was turning to face him, Ames stepped forward and threw a bony elbow into the younger man’s face. Flannel backed by bone hit flesh and Merrymen staggered back.

The phone started to ring. Ames moved to pick it up, which didn’t strike me as the thing to do in this situation.

Merrymen, now bloody and broken-nosed, pushed himself away from the wall and headed toward Ames with a gurgling sound that could have been his own animal reaction or the result of blood dripping into his throat.

The phone hit Merrymen in the chin just as Merrymen put his open hand out toward Ames’s eyes. This time Merrymen went down. He hit the floor hard and rolled over groaning, his hands covering his face.

“For you,” said Ames, handing me the phone.

I took it and Ames moved to help Mickey to his feet.

“Fonesca,” I said.

“Horowitz,” said Ann. “Are you incapacitated?”

“Huh?”

“If you are going to miss an appointment, you need only dial my number and give me an excuse, preferably the truth.”

“Things happened,” I explained, looking at the not so very Merrymen.

“That is the nature of life,” she said. “You are late. Are you coming?”

“Yes,” I said. “Ten minutes.”

She was less than five minutes away and I shouldn’t have trouble parking at this hour.

“Ten minutes. I’ll explain when I get there.”

I hung up the phone and used a tissue from the dispenser on my desk to wipe the blood off its corner before putting it down.

“How’s Mickey?” I asked.

“He’ll be fine,” said Ames who had sat the boy on one of my folding chairs.

Michael Merrymen rolled over and looked up at me. He was a mess.

“I’m suing you and that old man,” he said, glaring at me.

It was hard to understand what he was saying. His nose was bent to one side and his jaw was swelling rapidly.

“I’m sure you’ll win,” I said as he sat up still on the floor. “Can you drive yourself to the emergency room?”

He didn’t answer, rolled on one side, and managed to get up on wobbly legs. He put his hand on his head and groaned.

“Hit my head,” he said.

“I saw,” I answered.

“Why are you all after me?” Merrymen suddenly said, his arms outstretched, his eyes moving from me to Ames to his son.

“It’s called paranoia,” I said.

“Bullshit,” Merrymen said, spitting blood on my office floor. I handed him a wad of tissues. He took them and applied them to his face.

“You’ve got a club in one hand and a target on your back,” said Ames, looking into Merrymen’s eyes. “Then you scream, ‘Here I am.’ That’s why people are after you.”

“You don’t understand,” Merrymen said.

“All I’ve got to say,” said Ames, turning his back on the ranting bloody man.

“The door’s over there,” I said.

“You people just don’t understand,” he shouted. “You don’t listen. You don’t… what’s the use. Mickey, if you come home, there’s a dog waiting to greet you.”

And with that Merrymen staggered out of the door. I looked out of my window and our eyes met. This was not a friendly departure.

“I have an appointment,” I said.

“I’ll take care of him,” said Ames. “You want him here when you get back?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’ll get him one of those things you drink from the Dairy Queen and some ice for his face,” Ames said.

“I’ll be back soon. By the way, what made you arrive just in time for the rescue?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the morning’s Sarasota Herald-Tribune. It was folded so that I could see the small article and the photograph at the bottom. The headline over the photograph read: “Murder Attempt on Motorist.” There was a picture of me inset in the small article. The picture was the same one I had taken for my process server’s license. I looked like a cockeyed smirking chimp, the very prey any sensible hunter looking for an easy target might take a shot at.

“Thought you might need help,” said Ames.

“You were right,” I said. “I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

Ann Horowitz was on the telephone when I arrived. She looked at me over the top of her glasses and motioned for me to close the door and take my usual seat. I did.

“Listen,” she told her caller, “my next client just came in. But I’ll give you advice. You called to sell me insurance on dying people. It’s an interesting idea. I give you money and then wait till my person dies. I check the obituaries or wait for you to call saying, ‘Good news, Emily Jacobs just died.’ Sensible but an aura of morbidity that I find strange. My question is, ‘How do you feel about selling the death?’… The word ‘fine’ came too suddenly to your lips as if you wanted to leap over some chasm and come out on the other side with a smile. What if I took my insurance out on your life? Don’t answer. You’ve been doing this how long? Six months. And you are making money as you promise I will. I have a question for you to consider, but I haven’t time now to hear your answer. The question is, what do you think is the meaning of your life? Answer it and then call yourself a liar and tell the liar to tell the truth. You have my number. If you want to make an appointment to see me to talk over your answer, call. My charge is one hundred dollars a session. Now, good-bye.”

She hung up the phone and settled back.

“No offering?” she asked, looking at my empty hands. “No biscotti, no scone, no rugelach, not even a donut?”

“I didn’t have time,” I said. “I was dealing with a lunatic in my office who was trying to kill me.”

“He didn’t succeed,” she said calmly. “I’ve got some raisins in the drawer.”

“No thanks.”

“We can drink my coffee,” she said.

“No thanks,” I said.

I had twice tried Ann’s coffee. It was thick, bitter, and I never saw her drink it.

“Why did this man want to kill you?” she asked.

“Because he’s crazy. He thinks everyone is trying to… he’s paranoid. Nuts. A loony. He beat up his son in my office.”

“Your clients sound almost as interesting as mine,” she said, opening a nearby drawer and pulling out a clear, small Ziploc bag of raisins that she opened and began to eat.

“We’ll compare notes sometime,” I said.

“Now is a good time,” Ann answered, looking up at her wall clock. “We still have forty-five minutes. So, I’ll start with a question. Why does a hermetic, depressed recluse have any clients at all outside of those for whom he serves papers?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Common denominator,” she asked.

I’d heard that phrase before today. It had more than a hint of deja vu.

“People come to me,” I said. “I don’t ask for them. I don’t want them.”

“But you don’t turn them down,” she said, nibbling a raisin. “Why? You’ve described some of your clients in past sessions. I see a common denominator. I may be wrong but it’s a place to start.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“They all remind you of the most important person in your life,” she said.

“Who?”

“You, Lewis Fonesca. They are all sad cases. People calling out for help with no one to turn to. A runaway wife, a wife whose husband is dying, a runaway girl, an old man who has been robbed by his partner. And you help them as you cannot help yourself.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“And then what do you do with them?” she asked.

“Do with them?”

“When you solve their problem. What do you do?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“You make the survivors part of a family you are rebuilding,” she said. “You lost your family and so you are rebuilding one and at the same time you reject it. You are an interesting case, Lewis.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“I didn’t say you were the most interesting case I ever had,” she said. “You know Joe Louis the boxer?”

“Of course.”

“I treated him once for a while,” she said. “Nice man. Paranoid like the man you had in your office. Thought everyone was trying to kill him, particularly the Mafia. He would never give up the idea. He had evidence, proof, a distortion of reality that bordered on the creativity of a Borges. He was more interesting than you are, but you will do. So?”

“So?” I repeated.

“Did anything I just said do anything? How did it make you feel?”

“It made sense, I suppose.”

“It made sense,” she said in exasperation. “Of course it made sense, but did it feel right to you? Did you have an epiphany? A sudden jolt of understanding?”

“No.”

“Sense and feeling are not always in agreement,” she said. “You sure you don’t want some raisins?”

I accepted some raisins.

“When you feel it, it works. When it just makes sense, it doesn’t work. The truth must touch your soul.”

“I don’t believe in the soul,” I said.

“I remember you telling me that many times,” she said. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe it or you don’t. You can deny the sight of a mystic levitating, but he is still levitating. Your denial doesn’t change that.”

“Levitation is a trick,” I said. “Weak analogy.”

“Levitation is a trick until you learn to levitate.”

“Can you levitate?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “But I have touched and had touched the soul. I have an idea. Let’s not call it the soul. Let’s not call it anything. Your picture was in the newspaper today.”

“I know,” I said.

“I have an extra copy. Would you like it?”

“No, thanks.”

“Someone tried to kill you?”

“I think so.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you want to know ‘who’?”

“No, I’d prefer ‘why.’ It saves a step.”

“Because I’m coming too close.”

“To what?”

“Damned if I know,” I said.

“Interesting thing to say,” Ann said, fishing out the last of the raisins. “Why would this knowledge lead to your damnation?”

“I didn’t mean…”

“An automatic response from inside, a protective cliche, but one that bears meaning for you. You could have said, ‘I don’t know,’ or ‘beats me,’ or…”

“I’m lost,” I said.

“Yes, that is why you came to see me in the first place. Do you know what happened to Henry Hudson?”

“He designed a fat car back in the forties,” I said.

“We’re close to something,” she said with glee, throwing the empty bag in the nearby trash can. “You are dodging. I am throwing. Perhaps you’ll stop and I’ll hit something.”

“Henry Hudson,” I said.

“Hudson Bay. Hudson River,” she said. “Searched for the Northwest Passage. Got lost, frozen on the massive bay that bears his name. There was a mutiny. The crew was getting sick. The ice was closing in. Hudson was determined to go on. The crew sent Hudson, his son, and others adrift on the icy water and sailed for home. Hudson was never found. No one knows if he made land. There are Indian stories about white men who lived for years on the shore, of Indians they traded with, of remnants of bones or a shack. But never found.”

“Interesting. There’s a point here?”

“History always has a point,” she said. “Historians always make a point. Often they disagree with each other over the point. What is the point of Hudson’s story for you?”

“If you keep looking for something that isn’t there and you’re too stubborn to admit it, you might get yourself killed,” I said.

“Or, you might find the Northwest Passage. Samuel Hearne tried and failed.”

“Samuel Hearne?”

“Lewis and Clark tried later with more success,” she said.

“I’m looking for a truckload of novels and short stories,” I said. “Not the Northwest Passage.”

“Henry Hudson found the Hudson River and Hudson Bay,” she said. “Not unimportant discoveries. Maybe you should… what?”

“Look around at what I’ve found and guard myself from mutineers,” I said.

“Close enough,” she said. “Session’s over.”

She rose and so did I. I paid her twenty dollars in cash that I could afford this week.

“One last thing,” she said as I went to the door.

I stopped and looked back at her.

“Can you say her name?”

“Catherine,” I said immediately.

I stood amazed. I had nurtured, protected my dead wife’s name and memory, held it as my own not wanting to let go of my grief, feeling the simple utterance of her name would be a kind of sacrilege to the mourning I did not want to lose. I had spoken her name aloud only to Ann and to Sally.

“You know why you were just able to do that?” Ann asked.

“No.”

“Because we talked about life. Because you are slowly rejoining the living, building new friends, a family.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” I said.

“And that,” she said with an air of conclusion, “is what we must work on.”

She went back to her chair, picked up the phone, and gave me a small smile of encouragement as I went out the door.

When I got back to my office, Ames was standing against a wall, arms folded. Mickey was sitting in the folding chair holding a see-through bag of ice against his face.

The blood was off the wall and everything was in place. Ames had cleaned up. I would have been surprised if he hadn’t. There was no sign of the supposedly adult Merrymen.

“Got some calls,” Ames said.

The little red light on my answering machine was blinking and the counter showed three phone calls.

“Any sound important?”

He shook his head “yes.” I got my pad and Nation’s Bank click pen and pushed the PLAY button.

A man’s voice came on, young, serious.

“This is John Rubin at the Herald-Tribune. We just got a call from someone who wouldn’t leave a name. Caller said that Conrad Lonsberg had all of his manuscripts stolen and I should call you. Please call back.”

He left his number, repeating it twice. I wrote it on my pad.

The second voice was Flo’s, not quite sober but contrite and possibly coming out of it. In the background I could hear Frankie Laine singing the theme from Rawhide. I didn’t think it really qualified as country or western, but it wasn’t an issue I wanted to take up with Flo who said, “Lewis, Adele called again, said she was all right. Said she was sorry for what she was doing to me but she had to do it if she expected to have any respect for herself. Said she’d come back to me if she lived or didn’t get locked up by the cops. I think, overall, that’s not a bad sign, is it? I couldn’t get her to listen to me. If you want details, give me a call. You know where to find me since my wheels are gone.”

The third call was from Brad Lonsberg and he was calm, level-voiced, and mad as hell.

“Fonesca, I just got a call from the Herald-Tribune. A man named Rubin asked me if there was any truth to the story that my father’s manuscripts have been stolen. I did what I always do when I get calls from people who track me down trying to get to my father. I told him I had nothing to say. He said he was about to get confirmation on the story from you. I don’t use foul language. If I did, I’d be using it now. If you’re trying to gain fame and a little fortune from my father’s relationship to that girl, I’ll use whatever power I have in this town to have you… Let’s just say I would be very displeased if you are talking to the press. I don’t like publicity related to my father. It’s my rear end I’m trying to protect, not his just so you know this is personal. My guess is if this Rubin has called Laura, he got her number from you. There aren’t many people who know who or where she is. So, simply, shut up.”

There was a double beep and the tape rewound.

I looked at Mickey whose jaw was swollen and at Ames who stood in the same position he had been in.

“Who do I call first?” I asked Ames.

“Flo,” he said. “I’m thinking about paying her a visit. She might be up for a little company.”

I nodded and punched in the buttons for Flo’s number. She came on after two rings with an anxious “Yes.”

“Me, Lew. Ames is going to pay you a visit. You up for it?”

“Ames? Anytime.”

I put a thumb up for Ames. The melting ice in Mickey’s bag shifted with a tiny clack. Mickey groaned.

“Adele say anything else? I mean besides what you put on the machine?”

“One or two things. Just talk about going back to school if she could. Something about not looking for her. She was in a place no one would look. That’s it. What’s going on?”

“I’m working on it,” I said. “If someone from the Herald-Tribune calls you, and I don’t think they will, just hang up on them.”

“I always do,” she said.

“This guy’s not selling subscriptions. I’ll talk to you later.”

I hung up, put a little check mark next to Flo’s name on my pad, and hit the buttons for Brad Lonsberg. There were four rings before Lonsberg’s voice on the answering machine came on and said, “Lonsberg Enterprises. I’m sorry I’m not available at the moment. Please leave your name and telephone number.”

“Lonsberg,” I said after the beep. “This is Fonesca. My guess is you’re sitting there listening to this message. If you want to pick up, we can talk.” He didn’t pick up so I went on. “I didn’t tell this guy Rubin or anyone else about your father’s missing manuscripts. He was playing you. Rubin called and left a message for me while I was out. I’m back now and I’m going to call him and tell him nothing. Just so we’re clear, I’m working for your father, but my goal in this is to find Adele and be sure she is all right. If the paper or the police connect Adele with the missing manuscripts, she might be in trouble I couldn’t get her out of. If you want to call, you’ve got my number.”

I hung up, checked off Lonsberg’s name, and looked up at Mickey.

“I’m not going back to his house,” he said painfully. “Never.”

“I don’t know who your grandfather’s house goes to or if it’s paid for but it might be you,” I said.

“Might,” he agreed. “I could live there but…”

It struck him.

“The cops might think I killed him to get the house?” he groaned in obvious pain.

“Cops think whatever works for them,” I said. “It’s possible.”

“I’ll go to Adele,” he mumbled, looking down.

“I thought you didn’t know where she was?” I said.

“I don’t. I’ll… I’ll just find her and we’ll stay in the house for a few days and go to St. Louis. I have an aunt in St. Louis.”

“You said ‘house,’” I said. “She’s not at your grandfather’s. It’s a marked-off crime scene and she’s too smart for…”

Then it hit me. I looked at Ames. He had the same thought I had. Adele actually owned a house. When Ames and I had found her father’s rotting body there less than a year ago, the little stone house in Palmetto had smelled of filth, rotting corpse, and decaying food. The walls were cracking. I knew a realtor was trying to sell it, but it wasn’t much of a prize and the neighbors would be only too happy to tell what had happened there, maybe even show prospective buyers a clipping from the Bradenton Herald with the house in uncolorful black and white. My guess, given that it was in a poor neighborhood of the very old and very black and the house was ready to commit suicide and collapse, the asking price was probably around thirty thousand, maybe less. Legally, I guessed, the house belonged to Adele now. I found it hard to imagine her going to it after all that had been done to her by her father in that place, but it made some sense. Or maybe it didn’t.

I called the Herald-Tribune number Rubin had left and he picked it up after one ring.

“City Desk, Rubin,” he said.

“You called.”

“What is your connection to the missing Lonsberg manuscripts?” he asked.

Good question. He assumed the manuscripts were missing and I was connected. He wanted an answer, but first he wanted confirmation.

“Conrad Lonsberg, the writer?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What makes you think I have anything to do with Lonsberg?”

“A reliable source,” he said.

“Your message says the person who told you about all this didn’t leave his name,” I said.

It was my turn to be clever. I was looking for gender. Rubin, however, was good.

“The caller left no name. Is it true?”

“I’m a process server. Someone’s playing games with you. Why don’t you just ask Lonsberg?” I asked, knowing there was no chance of getting Lonsberg to say a word, even a single word if Rubin or some TV crew tracked him down at a hardware store or Publix.

“We’re expecting confirmation from Lonsberg’s son in a few minutes,” said Rubin confidently.

“Fine,” I said. “Maybe he knows what you’re talking about. You ever read anything by Lonsberg?”

“Me? What has that got to do with this?” asked Rubin.

“It’s a trick question,” I said. “Think about it. Meanwhile, unless you have some papers you want served or someone hires me to serve papers on you, our friendship is over.”

“Maybe not,” said Rubin. “I read Fool’s Love in high school. Required reading.”

“And? Did you like it?”

“No.”

“Did you tell the teacher you didn’t like it?”

“She loved it. I’m not an idiot.”

“Neither am I,” I said and hung up.

My guess was that he wasn’t going to get any confirmation about Lonsberg, Adele, and the missing manuscripts. It was also clear that he made no connection between the dead Bernard Corsello and Adele. If he did, a good reporter would have no trouble tying me to Adele’s recent and unpleasantly dark life.

“Let’s go,” I said, standing.

“Need firepower?” Ames asked.

The last time we had gone to the house in Palmetto Ames had been carrying a very mean shotgun.

“Maybe something small,” I said.

“Got to stop at the Texas,” he said.

“Right. Let’s go, Mickey.”

“Where?” Mickey asked.

“To Palmetto,” I said. “To Adele’s house.”

“She’s not there,” he said emphatically. “She’s not there. She’d never go there.”

Now that he had confirmed to Ames and me where to find Adele, I grabbed my paperback copy of Plugged Nickels and we hurried him out of the office. I closed and locked the door and hustled Mickey to the Taurus. Ames sat with him in the backseat till we got to the Texas Bar and Grille. Mickey, his jaw now swollen to the size of a baseball, suggested the need for the nearest emergency room. He looked at the handle of the back door when Ames got out.

“I can’t go,” he said.

“Because you promised Adele you wouldn’t tell where she was and you’re afraid she’ll be angry.”

“Part of it,” he said. “I just want out right now. This is kidnapping.”

“You can get out,” I said. “Got friends? A place to stay? You need a doctor. We’ll take you to one unless you want to walk. You probably have something broken in your face. Hurt?”

“A lot,” he said, slumping back.

Ames was back quickly. He climbed in next to Mickey and held up a revolver that could well have been picked up as a souvenir after the gunfight at the O.K. Corral.

I drove straight up Tamiami past the airport and through the carnival of malls and fast-food shops on both sides. When we passed Cortez in Bradenton, we went straight up Ninth while most of the traffic veered to the right to stay on 41.

The malls became small shops and Mexican tamale stands. There were places with rooms for the night, week, or month, cheap. The migrant Hispanic workers who picked tomatoes a few miles away filled the street in picking and packing season. This wasn’t the season.

We went past the Planetarium and over the bridge across the Manatee River. On the other side was Palmetto. The last time Ames and I had come here, it had been raining. Today the sky was clear.

I had no trouble finding the street and the house where Dwight Hanford had died. It looked a little different. Someone had cleared the yard of beer cans, decaying boxes, and assorted nausea. Where there had been only crumbled stone and shells, there was now grass trying to stay alive. Grass was in a battle with the shells and rock. It looked like the shells and rock were winning.

There was no vehicle parked on the narrow driveway next to the house. Adele was smart. If she was inside, she had probably parked on some side street within running distance but not within sight.

The three of us went to the door. I nudged Mickey ahead of me.

He knocked and called, “Adele.”

No answer.

“Adele, I’m hurt.”

Still no answer. I tried the door. It was open. We stepped in, side by side in the dining room that had no furniture. Nothing. A roach scuttled across the room.

In the middle of the floor was a small pile of paper.

I picked it up. It looked like two very short stories by Lonsberg, complete with his signature. The title of one was “Guilty Pleasures” and the other “He Shall Have Nothing.”

With the stories in one hand, I followed Ames through the almost empty house to the single bedroom. There was a ruffled mattress on the floor in one corner and a note on the mattress. I picked it up and recognized Adele’s writing. It wasn’t signed.

“If I got this right, Mr. F.,” the note said, “Mickey gave me away. Tell him I expected him to and I’m not angry. I expect disappointments. I expect lies. I expect you have the manuscripts in your hand. They aren’t short stories. They are the first twenty pages of two novels. Guilty Pleasures was once five hundred ten pages. It’s now twenty. He Shall Have Nothing was once four hundred thirty-six pages. It’s now twenty. Lonsberg can have these forty pages. That leaves him about a thousand pages to reconstruct, the thousand pages that went out with the garbage two days ago.”

I showed the note to Ames and Mickey. Ames nodded. Mickey looked as if he were about to cry.

“Let’s get Mickey to ER,” I said. “And then we better make a delivery to Conrad Lonsberg.”