Retribution

7

Laura Lonsberg lived in a condo just off of Venice Beach. She was on the fifth floor of the ten-story building. It was a three-bedroom with a balcony overlooking the Gulf. Her two daughters, she told us when she answered the door, were at school.

We were expected or at least I was. Her father had called from a gas station the day before and said I would be coming.

“You should have called,” she said, ushering us in. “I’m usually at work on Fridays.”

The living room was moderate in size, big enough for a comfortable bright sofa, some chairs, and a pair of lamps that might have been real Tiffany. The balcony door was open and we could hear the not-too-distant sounds of people on the beach and splashing in the water. A gull landed on the balcony railing, cocked his head to one side, and looked at me. Then he flew away.

Ames and I sat.

“Coffee?” Laura Lonsberg asked. “I’ve got some hot.”

“Fine,” I said. “Cream, sugar.”

“Black,” said Ames.

She left the room and I looked after her. She was in her late thirties, good figure, and the inherited dark blond hair of her father. She also bore a distinct resemblance to him that most people would say made her look plain. I thought she looked strong and determined. I didn’t think this was going to take long. She was back almost immediately with steaming blue mugs with the word “Illinois” scripted in orange across them.

She sat across from us, no coffee, legs crossed, hands folded.

“Where do you work?” I asked.

“Hospital, billing department,” she said. “I’ll save you time so we can get to the real questions. I have two children, daughters. My husband’s name is Danny Guffey. I met him in high school, Riverview in Sarasota. His family was poor. Danny’s father owned a small dry-cleaning store. My father thought Danny was after my money. He said he would give us nothing till he died. Danny didn’t care. My husband is a chiropractor, a good one, a very successful one. He has offices in Venice and in Bradenton, a secretary, a bookkeeper, and two assistants. We have two beautiful girls who along with my nephew will, to anticipate one of your questions, inherit most of whatever my father is worth when he dies.”

“You know what happened?” I asked after taking a drink of the coffee. The coffee tasted like raspberries.

“The girl, Adele, took my father’s manuscripts,” she said. “He wants no publicity so he hired a private detective to find her, one, I understand, who actually knows the girl.”

“I’m not a private detective,” I said. “I do know Adele. How well did you get to know her?”

Laura Lonsberg Guffey picked up a glass owl from the small table in front of her and looked at it as if it would give her an answer.

“Not well,” she said. “I bring the girls over every week or two when the great man feels a need to see them. My husband doesn’t go. Sometimes Adele was there. Sometimes we talked. She’s bright, has a lot of energy, and has been through a lot.”

“She told you about…?”

“Yes,” said Laura, rolling the crystal owl from hand to hand. “I read some of the things she was writing. I think my father’s right. She’s talented.”

I said nothing.

“Was I jealous?” she asked. “Not really. I can’t write. I’m not interested. My major interest in writing is those manuscripts and the future of my daughters. My father made it clear when I finished college and married Danny that I was on my own. I accepted that. I think he was right.”

“And your brother?”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re asking, but, yes, he was on his own after he got his B.A. He’s a C.P.A. in Sarasota.”

“But he lives in Venice?” I asked.

“He prefers it here and doesn’t mind the drive,” she said, putting down the ball. “You can discuss that with him. As to the rest of your ambiguous question, no, my brother was not happy to be sent into the world with a few dollars and a college degree.”

“Your father and brother get along?”

“I’d say so, but I wouldn’t call them buddies. Brad has one son, Conrad Junior. Conrad Senior is fond of him. Brad’s wife died when Connie was a little boy. Brad’s wife and the great man did not get along. She fought the few times they met so they stayed away from each other. Conrad Lonsberg, when his daughter-in-law died, condescended to attend the funeral but drove away when he saw reporters hovering at the funeral home for a glimpse of the famous literary recluse. In any case, the manuscripts, as I said, were they to exist would go to my girls and my nephew.”

Silence and then she added, “So, you see there would be no point in Brad or me wanting to take the manuscripts if that’s what you’re thinking. There’s nothing we can do with them. All we can do is sit and wait till he dies. Even Conrad Lonsberg has to die sometime.”

“You don’t love him?” I asked.

“The great man? He treated my mother reasonably well, but if you’re a girl looking for warm, fuzzy, and protection after her mother dies, Conrad is not the one to go to. Now for your next question. Was I worried about Conrad changing his will and putting Adele on it? The answer is ‘no.’ That’s not the way my father thinks. Read his books or his poems. He thinks people have to learn to take care of themselves. His grandchildren seem to be an exception.”

“Any idea why Adele might want to take your father’s manuscripts?”

“Adele’s a sharp kid, more than a kid, but Conrad knows how to hurt,” she said, putting the owl gently back on the table. “He wouldn’t touch her body, but he could play some painful games with her mind if he wanted to. He knows how to hurt.”

“Not one of your favorite people on the planet?”

“No,” she said simply. “Anything else?”

“Mickey Merrymen,” I said.

“Who?”

It sounded like an honest “who” to me, but I went on.

“Friend of Adele’s.”

“No. The only other person I ever saw her with was an old woman who drove her to Conrad’s a few times. I didn’t get her name, but she drove a big car and wore too much makeup. That it?”

“All I can think of,” I said. “Ames?”

“Conrad, the great man,” Ames said. “You don’t call him father or dad.”

“I don’t think of him that way,” she said. “Father is a word you earn by being one.”

“You think much of his writing?” Ames asked.

“He is a great man,” she answered with a shake of her head. “I really believe that even when I say it with a touch of sarcasm. A great writer.”

She gave us the address of her brother’s business office in Sarasota and we left. Back in the car, I asked Ames what he thought.

“One good real hug from her father would take away most of the bitterness,” he said.

“That simple?”

“In this case, I think maybe so.”

The conversation ended and we drove back to Sarasota.

It was late in the afternoon when we got back. We stopped at the Texas Bar and Grille for a quick bowl of chili. I called Brad Lonsberg’s office and asked if I could come over for a while.

“Sure,” he said. “I’m working on something now. Give me half an hour.”

The early-afternoon crowd was straggling into the Texas, some wearily glancing up at the television set where the news was on with no sound, some talking business or baseball. Some not talking.

The phone rang while we were finishing our chili. I noticed but didn’t pay any attention until Ed called over, “Lew, it’s for you.”

I left Ames working on his chili, moved to the bar, and picked up the phone.

“Fonesca,” I said.

“Adele,” she answered.

“How did you know I was here?” I asked.

“You weren’t at your office. I’ve just been looking.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been looking for me,” she said. “Don’t. By the time you find me they’ll all be gone.”

“Lonsberg’s manuscripts?”

“Every page.”

“Why?”

“Because of what he did to me,” she said, trying to keep her voice down. “But you tell him. You tell him what I’m doing.”

I heard a car horn on the phone. I heard the same horn outside the Texas. I motioned for Ames who wiped his mouth with his napkin and lopped over.

“Mickey’s grandfather,” I said.

“Mickey’s…? What about him?”

“He’s dead,” I said. “You didn’t know?”

“What happened?”

“Someone shot him in his house. The police passed on me but they’re probably already looking for Mickey and maybe for you. Let’s talk.”

“No,” she said.

“Ames wants to tell you something,” I said, handing him the phone, covering the receiver, and whispering, “Keep her talking.”

Ames nodded and into the phone said, “Got yourself some more trouble, girl?”

I ran for the front door, banged into a table sending a burger flying, and went out into the late afternoon. Flo’s white minivan was parked across the street. A young man was behind the steering wheel. Sitting next to him on the cell phone was Adele. As I started across the street Mickey stepped on the gas. He tore rubber and flew down the street. My car was half a block away and who knew which way he would turn.

As I headed back to the Texas, I saw the fire in the trash bin. It wasn’t big, but it didn’t belong there. I went over to it and looked down. What remained of a manuscript, a short one, was burning. I reached down to save some of it but it was too far along. I did read the title just as the flames hit the top page of the manuscript, Come Into My Parlor. The title page was off to the side of the burning bits and pieces. I picked up the title page and blew out the fire in the corner.

I went back into the Texas heading for Ames but was cut off by an angry small bull of a man with hell in his eyes.

“You fuckin’ ruined my burger, you little bastard.”

“Had to get outside. Emergency. Kid. I’ll pay your bill and get you another burger. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe sorry don’t cut it,” he said, stepping in front of me as I tried to walk around him.

“Let him by,” came a voice from the bar.

Everyone stopped talking to watch what would happen next. I was only interested in the fact that Ames was still on the phone with Adele.

The little bull didn’t move.

Ed Fairing repeated, “Let him by. Your bill’s covered. You got an apology.”

The bull nodded, stepped aside, and softly said, “I’ve had a bad day.”

I nodded and moved past him to the telephone as the conversation in the room began again. Ames held out the phone to me.

“Adele,” I said.

“You found it,” she said. “We’re going to go around the whole of Sarasota and Manatee destroying the books one at a time, page by page. I’ll let you know each time and you can tell him.”

“Give Sally a call,” I said. “She’s worried about you.”

“I’ll think about it,” Adele said.

“She’s also responsible for you,” I added. “And Flo…”

“I called Flo. I’ll call you when we burn the next one. That’s it.”

“Hold it,” I said, but it was too late. She had pushed the END button.

“Got an angry child on our hands,” Ames said.

“What did she tell you?”

“And each one will go, burning like dying little stillborn suns,” Ames said. “She said that’s the last line of Fool’s Love.”

We headed for Brad Lonsberg. He had a small office on the second floor over Davidson’s Drug Store at the corner of Tamiami and Bahia Vista. Before the Starbucks moved into the middle of the small mall’s parking lot, parking had never even been a minor problem. Now, parking spaces were spiked with signs warning that you had to drink your coffee, do your shopping at Kash ‘n’ Karry, buy your magazines, or get your hair cut in half an hour or find a space at the fringe of the lot. I’m not complaining, just pointing out reality. There was never really a problem finding a parking space in Sarasota. Here people-even if they moved down or are visiting from Toronto, New York, or Atlanta-think parking half a block away from wherever they might be going in Sarasota was a major inconvenience.

Brad Lonsberg’s office was down a carpeted corridor on the second floor past the offices of child psychologists, a small gourmet magazine, the business office of a radio station, and the Center for Traditional Chinese Medicine.

His glass door, with his name in gold letters unchipped on it accompanied by “C.P.A.” and “Financial Management,” was open. Ames and I went in. A harried-looking girl was on the phone trying to be patient. She held up a finger for us to wait a second. We waited while she talked and tried to push back strands of unruly hair. She was dark, pretty, thin, and looked as if she might be seventeen. She was also frowning as she talked.

“I really am sorry, Mrs. Scheinstein,” she said with just a touch of authentic Florida in her voice, “but we just got the forms and all, you know… if Mr. Lonsberg could get them any faster he’d… Yes, soon as they’re ready to sign, I’ll call you… I can’t guarantee tomorrow morning… It’s really up to… I’ll ask Mr. Lonsberg if he’ll… Believe me, Mrs. Scheinstein, if… I’ll see if he’s available.”

She held the phone away from her and mouthed “just one more minute” to us. Ames and I sat in two of the three waiting-room chairs in front of her desk. She pressed a button and then another one and said, “It’s Mrs. Scheinstein. She won’t listen. Okay. And there are two men here to see you. Okay.”

She pushed another button and said, “Mr. Lonsberg will speak to you now, Mrs. Scheinstein. I’m sure he’ll work it out.”

She pushed yet another button that obviously disconnected her from Mrs. Scheinstein and said, “Ole bitch,” in a whisper. And then realizing what she had done turned to us and said, “Sorry. But some people.”

“Some people,” I agreed.

“You can go right in,” she said. “Mr. Lonsberg’s expecting you. At least if you’re the men Mr. Lonsberg’s expecting.”

“We’re the men,” I said.

As we stepped past her, we could see her reaching with indecision toward the piles of papers and files on her desk and the stack of pink telephone message notes skewered to a pointed post next to the phone. She brushed back her long dark hair, sighed, and reached for a pile of unopened letters.

Ames and I stepped through the door and found ourselves in a small office. The window behind the desk where Lonsberg sat gave a view of the parking lot, Starbucks, Tamiami Trail, and even the white Cutlass we had come in.

The phone was at his ear and he nodded as if the listener could hear him and pointed at the two chairs across from his desk. We sat. Lonsberg looked nothing like his father except for the lanky body. His face was clear, dark, reasonably good-looking in a Peter Fonda kind of way. Laura had inherited her father’s looks. I guessed Brad had been blessed by his mother. He had a nice patient smile, a recent haircut, and a shirt and blue tie with white circles on it. His jacket hung on a hanger in the corner.

“Maria,” he said calmly, soothingly into the phone, “the government moves in strange ways, its miracles to perform or fail to perform. I have the forms before me. I have your contracts neatly laid out. I’ll have this all finished in an hour and I’ll bring them by myself for your signature… Yes, I’ll have an envelope all made out and fully stamped. You sign. I get to Federal Express and you put it from your mind… I’ll be there between six-thirty and seven… No, I’ll be happy to do it… Give my best to Sam. Tell him not to worry. Yes. Good-bye.”

He hung up the phone, looked at us, and said, “I’ll bring her a yellow rose from Kash ‘n’ Karry, hand her the papers to sign, have a glass of very bad Napa Valley wine with her and her husband, and go home a sadder but wiser man. Dealing with the very old isn’t particularly easy.”

He looked at Ames who looked back.

“Mrs. Scheinstein just had her eighty-sixth birthday,” Lonsberg explained. “She still drives. She shouldn’t. What she does do is pay her bills on time.”

He smiled and with a small sweep of his hand gave us a what-can-you-do look.

“I’m Lewis Fonesca,” I said. “This is my colleague Ames McKinney.”

He examined us, the smile still on his face, a confident smile.

“I’ll try to make this easy for you,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I know. You ask questions. I get Mrs. Scheinstein’s report finished and then if the timing is right I get to see the second half and maybe some of the first half of the Riverview-Booker basketball game. My son Connie’s a guard. Great defense. Fair offense. But you want to hear about father, not son.”

“Adele,” I said.

He kept smiling as he shook his head.

“Met her a few times. She was polite, maybe a little defensive. My father didn’t make it any easier on her. I know he liked her. Sorry for the past tense but given the circumstances…”

“Given the circumstances,” I repeated.

“Conrad Lonsberg knows how to hurt, himself, his children, the feelings of others. A kid like Adele, even a tough kid, could find herself being torn apart by his criticism. It’s hard to put your work on the line, your creative work, in front of a legend and listen to him tell you how rotten it is.”

“You learn this from experience?” I asked.

“When I was about eight, I tried to read Fool’s Love. Couldn’t understand a word of it. When I was about twelve, I tried some writing. I tried a story, a few poems, got up the nerve to show them to him. He didn’t say anything, just read. I can still see his eyes scanning the neatly printed pages. Then he turned up to look at me, handed the pages back, and said, ‘You don’t have the gift.’ That ended my literary career.”

“Must have hurt,” I said.

“Hurt? I tore up the pages in my room and never thought again about writing. But you know something, he did me a favor. He was right. I didn’t have the talent. If he had encouraged me, I might have kept on, even written some stories or a book and got them published because I was Conrad Lonsberg’s son. But they wouldn’t have been any good and I would have known it. I could have wasted a lot of years. He could have handled that twelve-year-old better. The message was right but the delivery left a lot to be desired.”

“So your point is that you’ve got nothing against your father?”

“I suppose,” Brad Lonsberg said. “Either of you like a Coke, coffee, something?”

Ames and I both nodded “no.”

“Have you any idea where Adele might have taken your father’s manuscripts or why?”

“I’ve told you. ‘Why?’ My father is full of ‘why’s’ and talent. His favorite question to his children. ‘Why?’”

“No specific idea of why?” I asked.

“None,” he said.

“If she destroys the manuscripts, it could mean you lose millions of dollars, you, your son,” I said.

He looked down at the papers on his desk and then over at us.

“Millions of dollars would be very nice,” he said. “How’s that for understatement. But we can live without it. I wouldn’t turn it down but there’s something satisfying in not needing it, not having to be tied to a father who’s a myth in his own lifetime. I even considered changing my name when I was younger, straight cut. Don’t misunderstand, I don’t hate my father. In an odd way I love him. We see him fairly often, Connie and I. My wife died when Connie was six, cancer. Connie could use a grandfather. Hell, I could use a father, but I… My sister, my father, and I talk about nothing. My father does seem to like his grandchildren but he gives off the sense whenever we’re with him that he’d like to look at his watch and get back to his typewriter. As the world knows Conrad Lonsberg still uses the same typewriter his parents gave him when he graduated from high school. I think he would grieve more if his typewriter were stolen than if my sister or I dropped dead.”

“So you don’t care what Adele does with the manuscripts?”

“Mixed feelings,” he said. “But I’d rather see him get them back. He doesn’t have much else besides his own lifetime of work.”

“And the money?”

“Well, that too,” he said, “but I’m doing well, better than the size of this office might show. I’ve made some good land and stock investments in the county based, I admit in private, on information given by clients. I have plenty of clients, mostly very old, very grateful for attention and often more than willing to set me up as the administrator of their estates, and I do annual audits for major companies all over the country. I specialize in high-tech companies. I’ve got two lawyers I work with who make it work.”

“In short?”

“In short, I’m doing very well financially which results, in part, in my not having to kiss my father’s behind when I’m with him. It took me almost forty years but I think I have my father’s respect.”

“And his love?”

“I’ll settle for his respect,” said Lonsberg.

“You know a Mickey Merrymen?” I asked.

“That’s the kid who picked up Adele once when we were at my father’s,” he said. “I think that was his name. Tall, young, shy. Stayed outside the gate. My son and I walked Adele out and met him. It wasn’t much of a conversation. Seemed like a nice kid, but what can you tell from a few seconds?”

“Sometimes a lot,” said Ames.

Lonsberg looked over at Ames as if he hadn’t noticed the tall old man in the room before this moment.

“Yes, I guess. I think I’ve learned to size people up fairly quickly in my business. Being a C.P.A. isn’t a glamour job, not like being a writer or a private detective, or a physician, but when people need you, they dump it on you, apologize, and want you to work magic. I’ve got to get to work. So, I apologize but…”

I got up. So did Ames.

“A question,” said Ames.

Brad Lonsberg looked up.

“All this big business and you’ve got a confused kid out there handling things?”

“Daughter of one of my clients, big clients. She just got out of high school,” Lonsberg explained. “She looks vulnerable and pretty when people walk in. It balances. Almost. Yes, I’d say she’s on the debit side. But it’s either pretty, young, and confused or a retiree who wants to go back to work. Tell the truth, I don’t think Maria will want to stay much longer. She doesn’t like making decisions. Next time I’ll try a retiree. Answer your question?”

“It does,” said Ames and we went out the door while Lonsberg put on a pair of glasses and looked down at the forms in front of him.

Maria the receptionist-secretary was frantically looking for something among the piles on her desk.

“It was right on top,” she said. “Just a second ago.”

“Mr. Lonsberg a good man to work for?” I asked.

Still ruffling among the mess, she said, without looking up, “He’s the greatest. Patient, calm. Look at me. I’m a boob. I can’t find a damn sheet he needs and I had it right… here it is.”

She held up the yellow sheet in triumph and showed a great set of teeth.

The phone rang. She looked at it with dread.

Ames and I exited.

“What do you think?” I asked as we walked down the corridor.

“He looks like he’s letting it all out,” Ames said. “I’d say he’s holding it all in.”

“Think I should check on Brad Lonsberg’s tales of the wealth of his kingdom?”

“Might be,” he said.

“And if I find he’s not the mogul he says he is? What does it mean?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “Ever think of trying this?”

He nodded at the window of the Center for Traditional Chinese Medicine. The office waiting room was three times the size of Brad Lonsberg’s. A lone waiting woman sat reading a copy of The Economist.

“They’ve got herbs, stuff for what ails you,” he said.

“What ails me?” I asked as we passed the office heading for the elevator.

“The past,” he answered.

“They have pills for that?”

“Pills and they stick needles in you,” he said as we reached the elevator and I pushed the button.

“And it works? You’ve done it?”

“Ed at the Texas comes here. Has his own problems. Liver. Swears on them. Costs some though.”

“I haven’t got some,” I said as the elevator dinged and opened. There were no passengers inside.

“And if you did?” he asked as the doors closed.

I shrugged. I wasn’t sure I wanted a quick fix on my grief. I wasn’t sure I wanted a pill or a needle to take away what I was clinging to. Dealing with Ann Horowitz was one thing. She wasn’t trying to take away my history, just find a way for me to live with it.

“Cup of coffee?” I asked as the elevator went slowly from the second to the first floor.

“That Starbucks place?” Ames asked.

“Why not?”

“Never been there. Two, three dollars for a cup of coffee with some sweet juice or something.”

“It’ll be a new experience. On me.”

We stepped out of the building and headed across the parking lot toward Starbucks.

“Nice kid,” he said.

“Adele?”

“And the girl back there, Maria.”

We stepped into Starbucks and both ordered the coffee of the day, Irish something. We sat at a table looking at the other customers reading newspapers, talking business.

“Someone in here named Fonesca?” called a girl with a Hispanic accent behind the desk.

I stood up.

“Phone call,” she said.

I crossed the room, inched my way past a big woman in a hat who was filling something that looked like a tall cup of whipped cream with little packets of Equal. The woman handed me the phone.

“Adele,” I said before she could speak.

“Finish your coffee, then go back to your car,” she said. “I left the title page.”

“Adele, did you call Sally?”

“No.”

“Will you?”

Long pause.

“I guess.”

“Can we talk?”

“We’re talking,” she said. “But I’m not stopping.”

“Mickey’s grandfather,” I said. “Someone killed Mickey’s grandfather.”

“It’s his fault,” she said.

“Lonsberg?”

“It’s his fault,” she repeated.

“Why?”

She hung up.

“Let’s go,” I said to Ames, hurrying back to the table.

He took the last of his coffee in one hot gulp and we went out the door past an incoming quartet of Sarasota High School students who had walked or driven over after school, books in hand. The two girls were blond and pretty. The two boys were lean and young-looking. I wondered how Ames and I looked to them.

“There,” said Ames, pointing across the parking lot toward Bahia Vista. The white van turned right onto Bahia Vista heading east.

We hurried to the Cutlass. I couldn’t smell anything burning, but there was a box on the driver’s seat. I hadn’t locked the car. We got in and I opened the cardboard box. It was filled with finely shredded paper, shredded so thin that each piece would tear at the slightest touch. One sheet was intact. It read: Let Me Introduce the Charming Devil. Conrad Lonsberg’s name was neatly typed below the title and he had signed it and written the date, 6/8/88, at the bottom of the page.

I dropped Ames back at the Texas and told him I’d get back to him in the morning. He nodded and leaned onto the open passenger window from where he stood.

“They’re all lyin’,” he said.

“I know.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Go home, get a banana coconut Blizzard and two DQ burgers, and watch a movie.”

At least that’s what I planned to do when I left Ames standing on the sidewalk. Oh, I got the banana coconut Blizzard and the burgers but when I got back to my office, I found four messages on my answering machine, a new record.

I pushed the REPLAY button and ate a burger.

Caller one was Marvin Uliaks: “Mr. Fonesca, have you found Vera Lynn yet? I don’t want to bother you, you know. I just want to talk to Vera Lynn. So, have you found her yet? Am I calling the right number?” Marvin sounded confused.

Caller two was Conrad Lonsberg: “Progress or setback? I’ll be home until ten in the morning.” Conrad Lonsberg sounded resigned.

Caller three was Clark Dorsey who had taken time off from constructing his house of irony to say: “Fonesca, my number is 434-5444. Call me.” Dorsey sounded troubled.

Caller four was Sally Porovsky: “Lew, Adele called, left a message on my machine. She says she knows who killed Mickey’s grandfather, but she’s not ready to talk until she’s finished destroying the manuscripts.” Sally sounded tired.

I was almost finished with my burgers and Blizzard trying to decide who to call first. There was a knock at the door.

“It’s open,” I called from behind my desk and in came the homeless Digger.

He stood in the doorway, a Neiman Marcus bag bulging in one hand and an envelope in the other. I could smell him, and like a vampire who has to be invited in, he stood waiting, weaving.

“Hypocrisy,” he said. “It rules the world.”

“I appreciate the information.”

“Monks, Luther’s ghost itself haunts our rickety abode,” he said.

“You saw him again?”

“He just left another message on your door. I watched. There was an aura of the uncanny about him. He floated like a specter.”

“A ghost?”

“My imagination is enhanced by a less than vintage wine, I must admit,” said Digger, “but while this is not a dagger in my hand, it is certainly palpable to feeling and to sight.”

“I thought you didn’t drink,” I said.

“In great moderation,” he said. “And only on special occasions.”

He stepped across my threshold, a vampire uninvited, his hand out to place the envelope on my desk.

“Thanks,” I said.

I didn’t want to say what I said next, but it would have been left hanging and heavy.

“Where are you staying tonight?” I asked.

He pushed out his lower lip and shrugged.

“The lavatory,” he said.

I took out my wallet and handed him a five-dollar bill. It was a mistake. It meant he would be back. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not the next day or the one beyond, but at some point he would come bearing a note from a ghost, a papal bull, the Sunday New York Times, and expect payment.

He took the bill and smiled.

“There’s a condition,” I said. “You rent a real bed, at least for tonight. Know anyplace?”

“For five dollars?” he asked. “There are crevices of this city of sun and beautiful beaches where hidden people for two dollars a night provide cots and dubious company. I have a friend who lives beneath a stone bench right on Bayfront Park. His head rests on his guitar and the police leave him alone. For fifty cents, he will move over and share his musical pillow.”

“A roof, Digger,” I said, opening the envelope.

“Then Lilla’s it shall be,” he said, his head lolling. “A refreshing walk in the evening, a cot, and conversation. Life goes on but the pace is so slow.”

“I agree,” I said as he staggered out the door and closed it behind him.

The four-folded unlined sheet of paper in front of me was written in the same block letters as the first one left by Digger’s monk:

YOU CAN’T BRING BACK THE DEAD. LET THEM REST. YOU CAN ONLY MAKE IT WORSE.

That was it. I have been threatened by pimps, muggers, cops-crooked and otherwise-goons, loons, and the completely mad. This note read less like a threat than a warning, a warning that something bad could come out of the box if I opened it any wider and looked in.

I called Sally. Her son Michael answered.

“It’s Lew. Your mom home?”

“Yeah, you ever have zits?”

“Yes,” I said. “When I was about your age. Also boils. Two on my neck. Had to be lanced. Hurt like hell.”

“I don’t have boils,” Michael said.

“I know. I was trying to make you feel better,” I said. “I understand they have all kinds of things for pimples. Over the counter.”

“They don’t work,” said Michael.

“Soap, water, prayer, and the passage of time,” I said.

“Shit,” he said. “I thought you might be able to come up with something. You know, like some old Italian remedy. Italian kids don’t seem to get it as bad as Jewish kids.”

“I always thought it was the other way around.”

“Here’s my mother.”

I heard the clinking of the phone being passed and heard Sally say, “Lew?”

“Yes, Michael and I were just bonding philosophically over adolescent pimples.”

“Adele called,” she said. “Not long ago. Michael just went back in his room. I think the pimple talk was a result of talking to Adele. He’s got a crush on her. God, I’m doing more than showing my age. ‘Crush.’ They must have a better word for it now, or at least a more graphic one.”

“Adele has that affect on men and boys,” I said.

“She told me she was all right and that she planned to continue to burn Lonsberg’s manuscripts. She asked me to tell her how much trouble she was really in.”

“And you told her?” I asked.

“Can’t lie to them, Lew. Once they catch me in a lie they never believe me again. I told her Lonsberg wanted the manuscripts back, of course, but I also told her I didn’t think he’d be going to the police about them. She had already figured that one out. I told her she had to go back to Flo’s or she was subject at worst to criminal charges or to placement in another foster home. She asked me if I’d do that.”

“And you said ‘no.’”

“I said ‘no.’ Where could I place a sixteen-year-old former prostitute? The possibilities are few. Flo is perfect for her. So, I asked her about Mickey Merrymen and his grandfather. She said they had gone to his house, found his body, grabbed a few things, and left. She wasn’t lying, Lew.”

“You’re sure?”

“You mean would I put my life on the line for it? No, but I believe her. I told her the police were certainly looking for Mickey.”

“So?”

“She’s angry,” Sally said. “She’s determined. All she would say is ‘He’s going to suffer for every page.’ Then she hung up. Hold it.” Sally put her hand over the mouthpiece but I could hear her call out, “Susan, did you shampoo? That was one quick shower… No, I’m not calling you a liar. It’s a matter of degree and intensity. I’m sure your hair is wet and has just had at least a passing acquaintance with shampoo. I’ll check.” Then back on the phone with me. “Lew, I can cover Adele for a few days, even that’s taking a chance. I’ll file a report that she may be missing. The report will stay buried on my overburdened desk for a few days, no more. Find her.”

“Sunday?” I asked. “Can you get away for a movie?”

“I can get away if I bribe Michael and Susan with a Scream 3 tape from Blockbuster and a sausage pizza.”

“Seven?”

“Check the show times,” she said.

We hung up. That left Dorsey to call. I dialed. The voice came on before the first ring had ended.

“Yes,” he said.

“Lew Fonesca,” I said.

“My wife is out,” he said. “She’ll be back soon. So this has to be fast. I talk to Charlie once or twice a year. He always calls me, never tells me where he is, but…”

“Caller ID,” I guessed.

“Yes,” Clark Dorsey said as if he had just betrayed his brother, which was probably just what he was thinking.

“Vera Lynn is alive?” I asked.

“Yes, but I don’t know much. He just says, ‘Clark, are you okay?’ I say, ‘I’m fine.’ He says he’s fine though he doesn’t sound it. And then he hangs up. That’s it. He sounds worse each time we talk. We’re brothers. We were close. Now… I think he needs help.”

“What number did he call from?” I asked, reaching for an envelope and a blunt pencil.

“I called it back,” he said, giving me the number. “It was a phone booth in a rib house someplace not far from Macon, Georgia, called Vanaloosa. A man with a black accent answered, said there were no white people around that neighborhood. Charles must have picked out the phone so I couldn’t find him. Maybe you can. He sounded like… he sounded like. I can’t explain it. Like he was dead and going through the motions. My brother was tough, Fonesca. Big, tough, smart. I don’t know if you can resurrect the near dead. My wife thinks what happened to Charles is responsible for our… well, responsible for what we are. But he’s my brother.”

“I’ll try to find him. How’s the house coming?”

“I bought new lumber like your friend suggested. I’ll even out the walls, but the house doesn’t seem to care. It just grows, section by section, each room holding less and less.”

“Ever think of seeing a shrink?” I asked.

“I don’t believe in it,” he said.

“I see a shrink,” I said. “Good one. I think she’d see you. You might want to give it a try.”

“My wife would like it,” he said flatly. “But I’m not sure I want to be anything else than I am.”

“I know. You get used to it,” I said. “Then it’s hard to give up the pain.”

“Yes, I guess. How do you know?”

“You build more rooms. I crawl back into smaller ones,” I said. “I don’t like talking about it.”

“I know,” he said. “Give me your shrink’s name. And let me know if you find Charlie and Vera Lynn. I’ll pay whatever…”

“I’ve already got a client,” I said.

“Marvin,” he said.

“What does he want with his sister after all this time?” Dorsey asked.

“Maybe I’ll find out,” I said.

We hung up. That left Marvin Uliaks and Conrad Lonsberg to see in the morning. I checked my face in the mirror of my small back room. The mark of Bubbles Dreemer seemed to be gone. I shaved with the electric so I could be sure. It was gone.

I went out the door. It was raining. The DQ lights were out. All the lights on the street I could see from the railing were out. Cars swooshed and splashed down 301. No one walked the rainy night, not even a floating monk.

Digger had said he was going to get a cot, but I remembered he had a crevice or a stone bench in Bayfront Park. He might be in the washroom thirty feet away. I couldn’t take another conversation with Digger, probably couldn’t take one with anyone else.

I held my cup over the railing into the rain, caught enough to brush my teeth and rinse and spit into the night.

I love the rain. I love heavy rain that isolates, keeps people away, sets up a wall if not of silence at least of steadiness. The sound of rain always helps me to sleep. I went back in, locked the door, moved to my room, got undressed, put on fresh underwear, and popped a tape into the VCR cutting off CNN showing people clinging to the tops of trees in a flood somewhere in Africa.

The movie came on. I’d picked it up for three dollars on the third floor of the Main Street Book Store. It was A Stolen Life with Bette Davis. Made a good double feature with Dead Ringer, both about Davis playing a twin who takes the place of her evil sister. It wasn’t Crawford in Rain but it would do. The problem was that the film, while in English, had subtitles in Spanish. I ignored the subtitles and watched. Dane Clark was an artist saying something to the good Bette Davis. I dozed to the sound of rain and woke up to see two Bette Davises on a small boat in a storm. The rain continued to tell me to sleep. I did.