Vengeance

4

The man with the gun was Ames McKinney. I’ve already told you about Ames. Tall, long white hair, grizzled, lean, brown and seventy-four years old. Ames was not supposed to bear arms. It was a right he had lost after using an ancient Remington Model 1895 revolver to kill his ex-partner in a duel.

The first time I met Ames was an hour after he called me the first week I moved into town. His Sam Elliott gruff voice had simply said, “You know a place called The Round-up. On 301, just up from Fruitville.”

“Yes,” I had said.

“Be there in half hour?”

“Yes.”

“Names McKinney. Lean, old, can’t miss me.”

The Round-Up was one of the many odd-ball restaurants in Sarasota, a town known more for its well-heeled tourists and wealthy retirees who lived on the offshore Keys than its cuisine. There are some good restaurants, and there is a hell of a lot of variety, including the Round-Up, which boasted on a red-on-white sign in the window, “The Best Chinese Tex-Mex in Florida.” Few challenged this claim, especially not the homeless who wandered past every day.

The Round-Up is gone now. Owner Round Harry was carrying too much weight. He died and the place was boarded up. Six months later it was and still is a shoe-repair and tailor shop run by a couple from Colombia who speak almost no English.

Restaurants come and go fast in this town. So does money.

Sarasota is rich, but even the rich need maids, supermarkets, police, firemen, tailor shops and shoes-tores. There is a middle class and a lower class in Sarasota and everyone, even the snowbirds, the well-to-do who came down only in the winter from as far north as Canada and as far east as Germany, knew it.

Parking was not rough in front of the Round-Up, not in the summer. Parking isn’t rough anywhere in Sarasota in the summer. There’s plenty of parking and no lines at the restaurants or movies.

The Round-Up wasn’t packed but it wasn’t empty and there was good reason. The food was cheap and spicy, the service fast, and no one hurried you out. You could nurse a beer or even an iced tea with a pitcher in front of you while you watched the Atlanta Braves on cable. The Round-Up was not a quiet place. Harry wheezed when he walked; the Braves game bellowed; drunks poured drinks for each other with shaking hands; and a pride of lawyers, sales managers, real estate dealers and knowing locals talked deals loud enough to be heard.

I spotted Ames McKinney in ten seconds, the time it took my eyes to adjust from the sun to the near darkness. The place wasn’t big but the tables weren’t jammed together. There was leg and elbow room and the smell of beer and something frying. The Round-Up had the universal look of a run-down bar and grill. The grizzled old man sat at a two-chair table in the corner, his back to the wall-Wild Bill covering himself from a sneak attack after drawing Aces and Eights.

He looked up at me from what looked like a plate of chop suey over nachos. I pegged his age at about ten degrees below the temperature outside. His hair was white and cut short. His eyes were light, probably blue-gray, and as I walked toward him I saw none of the telltale red or yellow in the whites that gave away the lifetime drinker.

“Fonesca,” I had said stopping in front of him.

He pushed his chair back and got up holding out his hand. His shirt was a red flannel with the sleeves rolled up and his jeans were faded but clean. I couldn’t see his feet but I was sure he was wearing boots.

“Ames McKinney,” he said, sounding more like George C. Scott than he had on the phone. “Anyone every tell you you look like that guy in the movies?”

“Charles Bronson,” I tried.

“Other guy,” he said. “Skinny sad guy. Don’t remember his name. Have a seat.”

I sat.

“Order something,” he said. “On me, no strings, no obligations. Food’s kinda nuts but it’s not bad.”

I nodded at Round Harry, who was sweating in spite of the almost cool air. He wiped his hands on his apron and shouted, “What’ll it be?”

“I’ll have what he’s having,” I shouted, pointing at Ames McKinney.

“Suit yourself,” Harry shouted and went about his business.

Ames McKinney wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and looked at me.

“I know people,” he said. “Mostly. Get it wrong sometimes.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Got your name from a lawyer in a bar,” he said ignoring me. “Not much choice. Small town. Could have had more choice in Bradenton, but I’m on one of those mopeds so I decided to stay cheap and local. Your listing was the smallest.”

“I appreciate your confidence,” I said.

“Don’t joke on me, Mr. Fonesca,” he said gently. “I’m country, but I’m no dolt. We can laugh together but not at each other. You can’t stop yourself then we can just have us a lunch, talk about the gators and the blue water and white sand and say good-bye.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m big city. Sometimes I don’t know when I’m doing it.”

“Apology accepted,” said McKinney, taking a bite of whatever it was Harry now placed in front of me in a steaming blue metal bowl along with a glass of dark beer.

“Special,” said Harry. “Mandarin Nacho Supreme.”

He departed and I looked at McKinney.

“You in a hurry?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“You gonna talk to me straight?”

“I’ll try,” I said, drinking some beer and looking down at the brown stuff in the bowl.

“How’s business?”

The Braves must have done something interesting. Harry and some of the customers groaned, and one shouted, “You see that?”

“Business is bad,” I said.

McKinney nodded.

“Then you got time to concentrate on what I’m gonna give you.”

“Depends on what it is,” I said.

“How old you, Mr. Fonesca?”

“Call me Lew,” I said. “I’m forty-one.”

“Your people? Italian? Mex?”

“Italian.”

He nodded and ate some more.

“You a good man?”

I shrugged.

“No, but I’m an honest one. I can prove it. You can see my office.”

“Lots of crooks are broke,” he said. “They just don’t know how to do thievin’ right. But I believe you,” he said, wiping the bottom of his plate with a wad of sourdough bread.

“Thanks,” I said. “What is it you want me to do?”

What he wanted was for me to find his former partner, a man named Amos Sprague, who Ames had tracked to Sarasota.

“I tracked him slow through a sister of his in Yuma, a dentist he went to in Truckee, a car dealer he bought a Dodge pickup from in Texarkana,” Ames had explained. “Got him down to here. Lost him. Need some help.”

“Can I ask why you’ve spent a year looking for Amos Sprague?”

Some business guys at the table behind me let out a whoop of laughter. One of them started to choke.

“We were partners, cattle. Hard work, but it pays if you know what you’re doin’,” said McKinney. “Amos took the money out of our joint account on a Saturday afternoon and took off in the company truck.”

“How much did he take off with?”

“A million and four hundred thousand dollars even. He left eighteen hundred in the bank. Bought a motor scooter and been livin’ on the rest since.”

“And you want your money back?” I asked.

“I want Amos Sprague dead,” he said. “I can’t live dignified or die justified with this unfinished between us.”

“So I find Amos Sprague and tell him to give you your money back or…”

“Tell me where he is and I shoot him between the eyes.”

“Seems simple enough,” I said. “My fee is…”

“Contingency and some cash out flat,” said McKinney.

“I don’t…”

“I’ve got a little over five hundred to my name. I’ll give you half and a week. You can’t find him in a week I get me a job and raise enough to find someone who can. You find him and get the money back and I give you twenty thousand. Simple as that.”

“Fair enough,” I said toasting him with what remained of my beer. “What can you give me on Sprague?”

He had given me enough to find Sprague, who had a new name, new wife, new teeth and a reputation for philanthropy. I found him and made the mistake of telling Ames. The two old men had an old-fashioned duel on the beach. I had arrived in time to watch it and testify later that Sprague had pulled his gun and fired first.

Ames had decided to stay in Sarasota. I guess he was my best friend.

I stepped in and Ames closed and locked the door behind me.

Beryl Tree was sitting in the straight-backed chair that went with the small desk near the window. The chair was beyond the bed near the bathroom. The window drapes were closed and only one small lamp over the bed was on.

Beryl Tree had her hands folded in her lap.

“He called,” she said.

“Ames called you?”

“No, Dwight. Called. Said if I didn’t get out and stop lookin’ for Adele, he’d come and kill me. He knows you’re lookin’ for him too. Told me to tell you to stop.”

She touched the bruise on her face.

I moved over to the bed, sat and faced her. She was holding on, sitting straight, but there was a catch in her voice and her eyes were focused on some distant thought on a far-away planet. If she started rocking, I knew she would be in real trouble.

“How did he know where you were?” I asked, reaching over to touch her hand.

When she felt my fingers, she came back to earth, almost, and looked at me as if she were trying to remember who I was.

“Remember I told you I saw him at the Waffle House across the street? He followed me, watched me go into this room. After he called, I called your number. Mr. McKinney answered. I guess I sounded… he asked what was wrong, said he was your friend. I told him and…”

“I was fixing your air conditioner,” Ames said, holding the gun at his side. It looked like the one with which he had shot his partner, a gun right out of a Randolph Scott western. “Tryin’ to anyway.”

“They could send you back for carrying that gun,” I said.

“Not much choice, was there,” he said.

“Maybe not,” I agreed.

“Borrowed it from Ed. He’s got a collection,” said Ames.

Ed Fairing owned the Texas Bar and Grill on Second Street off of downtown. The Texas was not a place where you’d find snowbirds, retirees and people with money. You would find great hot chili and good thick burgers, both with enough fat to kill a long-distance runner and enough taste to lure a vegetarian. Ames had a small room behind the kitchen. In exchange for room and board and a minimal salary, Ames kept the Texas clean and swept. Ames had once been more than a millionaire, but he was content with his job. It gave him plenty of time to think, read the Bible and do odd jobs for me from time to time on his motor scooter. Ames had also become a great source of information. People liked to talk to the tall, quiet man, and the people who came into the Texas often had interesting things to talk about.

“Ever hear of Dwight Handford?” I asked Ames.

Ames thought for a moment and then said,

“From Ms. Tree’s description, I think maybe he came into the Texas about three or four months back. Drunk. Tried to start a fight with a tomato picker named Seranas, skinny little fella minding his business. Ed threw this guy out who mighta been Handford.”

When Ed threw someone out, it wasn’t figurative. Ed Fairing had played two years for the Dallas Cowboys. Never a starter. Popped a knee. Gained some weight. Lost some weight and moved to Sarasota, where he had relatives. With the few thousand dollars he had left, Ed had bought the bar and made a living serving as his own cook and bartender. Ed still topped 300 pounds and never lost his temper.

“Think you could ask some questions?” I asked.

Ames nodded.

“Think you can get that gun back to Ed fast?”

Ames nodded again.

“I’m not goin’,” said Beryl Tree.

“And I’m not going to stop looking for Adele. But we can get you somewhere safer.”

“That’ll be fine,” she said.

“Okay. Pack your things.”

“They’re packed.”

“Pay your bill.”

“Already did. I knew I couldn’t stay here.”

“Good. Then I’ll take you to the place Ames lives and works, the Texas Grill. You’ll be safe there. I’ve got a stop to make then. After that I’ll pick you up and we we’ll go see a lady who might be able to tell us how to find your daughter.”

I got up and put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at me.

“I’m not going without Adele.”

“I know.”

“Be careful of Dwight.”

“I will.”

I looked at Ames, who nodded in understanding, tucked the gun into the pocket of his loose-fitting faded jeans, draped his blue, equally loose shirt over the weapon and moved to the window. He pulled the drapes open just enough so he could see outside and said, “Looks okay.”

Ames went first. I was sure that if Dwight Handford appeared he would get the surprise of his less-than-savory life. I hoped he didn’t appear. I didn’t want Ames ending his life in prison.

I picked up Beryl Tree’s suitcase. It wasn’t heavy. She got up from the chair and followed Ames through the door with me behind. Ames stood watch while I pulled open the door of the Metro for Beryl Tree and dropped the suitcase on the backseat.

“See you at the Texas,” I told Ames. “You fix the air conditioner?”

“Got to get some parts. Might be cheaper to buy an old one or a used one,” he said.

“Might be,” I agreed. “Meet you at the Texas in a few minutes.”

Beryl and I didn’t talk as I drove up 301, turned left on Main and then made a right on Lemon to Second Street. We got to the Texas before Ames, but he wasn’t far behind. He parked his scooter next to me. There were plenty of spaces. Parking was no problem in Sarasota, even in tourist season.

“Ames’ll take care of you,” I said, handing him her suitcase.

“I’ve taken care of myself my whole life,” she said. “I don’t see that changing.”

“You like chili, good burgers?” I asked.

“I’ve served enough of ’em to know the good from the bad.”

“Try Ed’s and we’ll talk later.”

I got back in the Metro but before I could close the door Beryl Tree said, “You need more money?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “You’re way ahead on retainer.”

“And I get an itemized bill when you find Adele.”

“To the last penny,” I said.

I left them standing on the sidewalk and drove the five blocks to the office of Geoffrey Green, Psychiatrist. I made it with ten minutes to spare.

There was a space in front of Carigulo’s Restaurant between a green Saab and a blue Rolls-Royce. The Rolls had a For Sale sign in the window.

The narrow passageway between Golden Fleece Antiques and Robintine’s Fine Oriental Rugs and Carpets led to a brightly tiled, small, open courtyard with a bubbling fountain in the center. To the right of the fountain was a large wooden door with a golden handle. The sign next to the door said FERGUS amp; SONS. I wondered what Fergus and his sons did and how they paid the rent. To the left of the fountain was a similar door marked GEOFFREY GREEN, M.D., PH.D. I opened the door and found myself in a carpeted waiting room twice the size of the two rooms I worked and lived in. A sliding glass window stood open in front of me. I told the matronly receptionist who I was and she asked me to have a seat. The only other person in the large green-carpeted waiting room was a nervous young woman, about twenty, who hadn’t done much to look her best. Her hair was short and dark. Her brown skirt didn’t really go with her gray blouse. She ruffled through a magazine, looked up at the clock on the wall and over at a tank of colorful tropical fish and then back at her magazine. I was halfway through an article about Clint Eastwood in Entertainment magazine when Green’s office door opened and he stepped out. There was no one with him. If he had a patient, the patient had gone discreetly out another door.

Geoffrey Green was in his late thirties. He wore a dark suit, had dark hair and was ruggedly good-looking. I’d bet he climbed mountains or skied when he wasn’t tending to his patients.

“I’ll be with you in a few minutes, Dorothy,” he said to the nervous woman, who nodded, frowning.

“Mr. Fonesca?” he said, looking at me. “Please come in.”

I followed him into his office. He opened his drapes and let in the sun and a view of a very small, lush garden and a colorful tiled wall.

The office wasn’t large compared to the waiting room, but it would do. There was a desk, a chair, a small sofa and two armchairs. The colors were all subdued blues with a touch of gold. A painting on the wall showed a woman standing on a hill looking into a valley beyond the ruins of a castle. Her face wasn’t visible.

“Like it?” Green asked, sitting behind his desk and offering me the choice of couch or one of the chairs. I took a chair.

“The painting? Yes,” I said.

“One of my patients did it,” he said. “An artist. A man. We spent a lot of time talking about that painting.”

“It’s…” I said.

“Gothic, haunting,” he said. “Yes.”

“I was going to say melancholy.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Mr. Fonesca, but I’m going to have to get right to your questions. I have a patient waiting.”

“I understand. Melanie Lennell Sebastian…”

“I can’t give you any information about why she was seeing me or what was said,” he said softly.

“What can you tell me about her?”

He sat back, picked up a well-sharpened pencil, put it down, looked out the window and made a decision.

“Melanie Sebastian is a remarkable woman,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “She’s been through a great deal in her life. The town where she grew up-”

“Ogden, Utah,” I said.

“Ogden, Utah,” he repeated. “Her mother was sick, recurrent brain tumors from what I understand. Melanie took care of her. Every day from the time she was about ten she came home and relieved her father, who worked evenings. I think he was a carpenter. Melanie just took care of her mother, didn’t play with other children much, just read and took care of her bedridden mother. When she was fourteen, her father had a heart attack and had to retire. Melanie went to work in a restaurant waiting tables after school till ten at night. No boyfriends. No close friends. It was Melanie’s idea to move to Florida with her father and mother. They moved to Gainesville while she earned her degree while continuing to work. Then, about four years ago, just after her parents died within a week of each other, she met Carl Sebastian.”

“And what’s she like?”

“Complicated,” he said, playing with his pencil. “Dedicated herself to her husband and to helping children. She worked long hours for not much pay at a Catholic agency. She fought the system, the courts, the psychiatrists, to save children. When Melanie Sebastian gives her love, she gives it with a conviction, compassion and ferocity I’ve never seen before.”

“You know this from experience?”

“I know it from observation. I’ve told you more than I probably should.”

“You haven’t told me why she was seeing you and what you make of the story of Melanie Sebastian you just told me,” I said.

“And I won’t,” he said, putting down the pencil and looking at me.

“Do you know where Mrs. Sebastian is?”

“No.”

The answer had come slowly.

“Any ideas?”

“Maybe.”

“Want to share them with me?”

He didn’t answer.

“This one may get me kicked out, but we’re both in a hurry,” I said. “Mr. Sebastian thinks you and his wife were having an affair.”

Green cocked his head and looked interested.

“You’ve already more than hinted at that. And if we were having an affair?”

“Or are,” I amended. “Well, it might suggest that she would come to you. Her husband just wants to talk to her.”

“And you just want to find her for him?”

“That’s it,” I said.

“First,” he said, getting up from his desk chair, “I am not and have not been having an affair with Melanie, Mrs. Sebastian. In fact, Mr. Fonesca, I can offer more than ample evidence that I am gay. It’s a relatively open secret, which, in fact, hasn’t hurt my practice at all. I get the gay clients, men and women, and I get women who feel more comfortable talking to me than they would a straight male or female. I don’t get many straight men.”

“You can somehow prove that?” I asked. “Or do I just take your word?”

“The truth is,” he said, looking at his watch, “I don’t have the time to prove it nor the desire, but I’m sure if you ask in the right circles, you’ll get the confirmation you need.”

The chair was comfortable. I was tempted to lean back.

“Okay, let’s say you’re gay.”

“Let’s say.”

“You could still be a friend of Melanie Sebastian. She was, or still is, a patient. She might be inclined to confide in you.”

“She might,” he said, standing up and smiling. “In which case, I couldn’t tell you.”

“Dilemma,” I said.

“It would appear.”

“I told Sebastian that when I found her I wouldn’t tell him where she was if she didn’t want to be found. When I find her, I’ll do my best to persuade her to talk to her husband or tell me why she won’t.”

“When,” he said. “Not if. You don’t look like a terribly confident man, Mr. Fonesca.”

“About most things I’m not. About finding people, I am.”

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, checking his watch again.

“If she gets in touch with you, please give her my card or my number. I just want to talk.”

He took the card and gave me a sympathetic smile.

“May I ask a somewhat personal question, Mr. Fonesca?”

“I don’t think I’m your type, Doctor.”

He chuckled. It sounded sincere.

“No, I’ve seen a great many people with severe depression. I’ve learned to recognize some of the signs, and-”

“I’ve already got a shrink,” I said. “And I couldn’t afford your rates.”

“How do you know?”

“Friend told me,” I said. “Besides, I’m straight. You don’t take straight males.”

“I said I don’t get many of them. I didn’t say I turned them away. Normally when a patient leaves I ask them to go out that door so patients don’t run into each other, but since Dorothy has already seen you-”

“And I’m not a patient.”

“And you’re not a patient. You can go out the front through the waiting room.”

He ushered me to the office door and opened it, saying,

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help.”

“I’m used to it,” I said. “I’m patient. Time is one thing I have too much of. Too much time and so little to do.”

“Spoken like a true depressive,” he said. “I don’t expect to be talking to or seeing Mrs. Sebastian, but if I do I’ll give her your message. I don’t think she’ll talk to you.”

“I’ll be in touch,” I said.

“Take one of my cards on the way out,” he said, and then, looking past me, addressed the nervous young woman with “Come right in, Dorothy.”

Dorothy waited till I was clear of the door, pressed her lips together and entered the inner sanctum. The door closed.

I stood for a few seconds watching the fountain in the small courtyard.

With two hours till I had to pick up Beryl Tree for our appointment with Sally Porovsky, I headed for the legal offices of Tycinker, Oliver and Schwartz. I had served papers for all three of the partners in the past and had gotten to know Harvey. Harvey did the computer work for the trio and was well paid for his expert services. He had a small, well-equipped room down a corridor near the washrooms where the secretaries could watch him. Harvey had a drinking problem. The secretaries were under orders to report all of his arrivals and departures. Harvey knew this, agreed to it and wanted it. It seemed to help him cut back on his drinking. Harvey did not want to lose this job. The question was whether he needed computers or alcohol more.

Harvey’s drinking, which had slowed considerably since I first met him, was tolerated because Harvey was a genius. I was on a straight retainer with the firm of T, O amp; S. I served papers at no fee. My retainer came in the form of access to Harvey whenever I needed him, provided I didn’t abuse the privilege.

Some of what Harvey did bordered on the illegal. Part of his unwritten and unspoken agreement with T, O amp; S was that he would solemnly swear that all the information he obtained on the Net was legally obtained.

Harvey could access information from the police- any police with a computer-credit agencies, banks, hotels, almost every major corporation, the Pentagon, the FBI and probably even the shopping lists of the wives of every member of the Israeli intelligence community.

I found Harvey in his windowless office drinking club soda and studying something on the computer screen in front of him.

Harvey looks more like an ex-movie star than a computer hacker. Harvey is tall, dark, wears a suit and tie, and sports short hair of gold. He’s MTT but you wouldn’t know it from his looks.

“Harvey,” I said.

He grunted something and then made an effort to pull his attention from the screen.

“Lewis Fonesca,” he said. “Looking as happy as ever. Here for work or a sports tip for the week? If it’s a sports tip, go with Duke over North Carolina if you can get three-two or an even bet with a six-point spread. The screen tells me.”

“Work,” I said, handing him the folder on Melanie Sebastian. He opened it and went through the documents slowly.

“Who prepared this?”

“Her husband.”

“Good job. You want the Tuesday special or…”

“She left, pulled the money out of their joint accounts. You have the numbers of the accounts, the list of credit cards and numbers, GTE calling card, whatever else you can turn up. He wants her found.”

“Take me about ten minutes if I don’t hit any problems. You want to wait?”

I said I did and took a seat while Harvey hit keys, moved a mouse, moved to another computer, hummed something that sounded like a busy signal and said things to himself like “Uh-uh-uh-uh” and “Here I come. Here I come.” Fifteen minutes after he started, Harvey turned to me and said.

“She hasn’t used any of her credit cards for the last week. She hasn’t rented a car or taken a plane out of Sarasota, Tampa, Fort Myers, Orlando, St. Pete, Miami in the last four days, at least not under her own name. She did come into Sarasota from Raleigh-Durham Airport last Monday. Early morning arrival. Can’t do much if she’s using cash and a different name, but I can run all kinds of variations on her name or any others she might use. People tend to stay with something they can remember.”

“Middle name is Lennell,” I said.

“Yep, see it right here. Mother’s maiden name was Fallmont. Let’s see… plenty to go on. Take some time. Bank accounts are cleared out. She doesn’t have any others in her own name.”

“How much did she pull out?”

He turned to the screen, moved the mouse, pressed a button and said: “Forty-three thousand, six hundred and fifty. Took cash. Left three dollars in that one. Another twenty-eight-two in cash from this one. Left fifty dollars and nine cents.”

“See the description of that jewelry?” I asked.

“Nice list.”

“Can you see if she sold any of it?”

“I can play a would-be buyer, go on-line offering more than market, but jewelry… It’s hard to market price. Still, the descriptions are good. I’ve got her Social Security number. I’ll get the numbers of her relatives, friends-if you can give me names and…”

“Can you see if Geoffrey Green, the shrink, has rented a car, bought an airline ticket. The works.”

“Yep,” said Harvey. “I saw Green three or four times when I came here and was, let’s say, recuperating.”

“And…?”

Harvey shrugged. “Didn’t hurt. Didn’t help.”

“Why’d you stop seeing him? Big fees? No help?”

“Sometimes a shrink who charges a lot of money is good. Green is good, but I think he started to come on to me,” said Harvey. “Hard to tell. I know what computers are thinking but I have a problem with people. He was careful. I wasn’t interested. Got uneasy. You know. Rapport between shrink and neurotic was deleted.”

“Any way you can talk to your computer to find out if…?”

Harvey nodded.

“Credit-card use. Organizations. Magazines he subscribes to. I can look. I’ll be a little curious myself.”

He took a drink of club soda. The bubbles were long gone. What I was asking him to do was illegal, not just on the border. I was more interested in what was right than what was legal. If I got caught, I would take what came. Ann Horowitz, who charged considerably less than Geoff Green, said I wanted to be punished, to be righteous and punished. A short, tarnished Lancelot in recycled Levi’s jeans.

“I’ll call you,” Harvey said. “I’ve got something else to finish, take me an hour and then I’ll go back on the trail of the missing Melanie. I’ll check every day to see if I can find anything till you tell me to stop.”

“Thanks, Harvey,” I said.

“My pleasure,” he said. “My meditation. My therapy. My answer to AA. My work. Anything else?”

“Are all the computers going to crash and the world to face disaster when the millennium begins?”

“You hoping yes or no? I get the feeling that, if you don’t mind my saying, you’re a little suicidal.”

“I don’t know.”

“A few minor glitches,” he said. “No planes falling out of the sky, blackouts, nothing like that. If you have friends thinking of loading up on gas, water and automatic weapons and heading for cabins back up in the Georgia hills, don’t try to talk them out of it. The Net tells me that they won’t listen.”

“I’m reassured,” I said. “And I’m late.”

Harvey had already returned to his screen.

I was back at the Texas Bar and Grill ten minutes later.

The windows of the Texas are painted black with only a neon Budweiser sign to serve as a beacon. The name of the bar is printed in big white letters on the blackened window. Inside, the Texas, which had all the comforts of Judge Roy Bean’s Jersey Lily, was lit with ceiling bulbs and muted yellow spotlights in the corners. The yellow walls were decorated with steer horns and old firearms. The tables were heavy, round, solid oak and surrounded by hard-hatted construction workers, garbage disposal men, cops, firemen, people on the edge of coming back from oblivion or sinking into it, and a handful of longtime Sarasota businessmen and women who know that the best chili and burgers in town were in the semidarkness of the Texas.

Beryl Tree and Ames were at a table in the back near the bar. Ames was watching the door. Beryl was nibbling at a giant chili burger. Ed Fairing, the proprietor and chef, was talking to Ames. Ed sports a big flowing mustache and wears string ties with turquoise or Petosky stones. Ed probably would have enjoyed pulling unruly customers out into the street for a public execution. Ed, though born and raised in the good part of Sacramento, California, lived the role. He had even developed a Texas accent.

“Fonesca,” he said, giving my hand a more than hearty shake. “Happy as ever.”

“Happy as ever,” I said.

“Burger and chili? Chili or burger? Beer?”

“Burger, thick, cheese, tomato, no onion,” I said, sitting. “You pick the beer and put it in a mug.”

“Gonna see a lady?” Ed said. “No onion, no chili. You always have onion and chili.”

“You should have been a private eye, Big Ed,” I said. He loved to be called Big Ed.

Ed left and I turned to Beryl Tree.

“Everything’s quiet,” said Ames. “I called Flo. She said she’d welcome the company.”

I nodded and said, “Mrs. Tree…”

“Beryl,” she said.

“Beryl,” I continued. “I’m going to eat fast and we’re going to see a therapist who might know how we can find Adele. Just tell her who you are, why you want your daughter found, about your husband, everything. If she asks for identification, give it. Her name is Sally Porovsky.”

“A therapist? They think Adele is crazy? Dwight’s the crazy one,” she said, pushing away her half-finished burger.

“Your daughter’s been through a lot,” I said. “My guess is the police or a court or her school referred her to the counseling service where Ms. Porovsky helps kids. You don’t have to be crazy to need help.”

She nodded, though I knew she was still not convinced.

“When we finish talking to Ms. Porovsky, Ames and I will take you to a friend’s house where your husband won’t be able to find you,” I said.

“If Dwight comes looking, he’ll find me. He’s mean, rotten even, but he’s not a fool. He’s smart in some ways. You know, like a animal, sharp teeth. I think he means what he told me. If I don’t go and call you off, he’ll do his best to kill me and maybe you, too.”

Ed came back with the steaming burger and a mug of beer. The foam curled over the side as it was meant to. I thanked Ed, who ambled over to another table, looking as if he had spent a lifetime in the saddle.

“You want to call it off?” I asked.

“No way on earth or in heaven,” she said.

Ames sat quietly watching the door, hands in his lap. I hoped he wasn’t carrying the gun I had seen him with earlier.

I ate fast. The burger was great and Ed had topped it with blue cheese and a thick tomato. I drained the mug of beer and got up.

“Let’s do it,” I said in my best imitation of William Holden in The Wild Bunch. Considering the surroundings, it seemed like the right thing to do. Considering who I was and how I probably sounded, it was a bad mistake.

John Detchon was at the reception desk reading and talking on the phone at the same time. He recognized me, smiled and examined Beryl Tree. He had probably seen a lot of Beryl Trees from behind his desk. Ames was waiting in the car. I wondered if it would be worth asking Detchon if he knew Geoffrey Green or anyone who might know him. Sarasota isn’t that big and I didn’t think the gay community, if it was a community, would be hard to keep track of. I decided against it, at least for now, and led Beryl to the elevator.

She clutched her purse and looked straight ahead.

When the doors opened and we went into the office of Children’s Services of Sarasota, I saw more people sitting in the cubicles than I had before. They were making notes, phone calls, faces. Sally Porovsky looked as if she hadn’t moved. Whatever it was about her kicked in and I decided to make a call to Ann Horowitz in the hope of finding some way of dealing with a feeling I couldn’t deny but wasn’t sure I wanted.

“Mr…?”

“Fonesca,” I reminded her, disappointed that she hadn’t remembered, and annoyed that I was disappointed.

“Fonesca, yes. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. This is Beryl Tree, Adele’s mother.”

Sally Porovsky’s voice was exactly as I remembered it. Musical, a little husky. Sally rose, took Beryl’s hand and smiled, guiding her to the extra chair in her cubicle. This time I stood, a step back.

“I’m sorry to ask you this,” Sally said gently, leaning toward Beryl and lowering her voice. “But do you have some proof of your relationship to Adele?”

“Got her birth certificate in my purse, photographs, report cards from grade school, health insurance, Social Security card, whatever I could find when I came out here.”

She opened her purse and began fishing out folded pieces of paper, cards and photographs of Adele. Sally examined them, returned some and asked Beryl if she could make copies of the ones she had kept.

“Just so I get ’em back,” she said.

“I’ll do that now and give them right back. Can I get you a coffee, Coke, water?”

“No, thank you.”

“Mr. Fonesca?”

“Lew,” I said. “No, thanks.”

“Be right back.”

Sally moved across the room and disappeared to the left behind a pile of cardboard boxes.

“I like her,” said Beryl.

“Yes,” I said.

“You can tell with some people,” Beryl said. “I think she tried to help Adele.”

I agreed. Sally returned in less than three minutes carrying a manila folder, handed the original documents to Beryl, who put them in her purse, and sat down.

“Mrs. Tree,” she said. “Your daughter said her name was Prescott, Adele Prescott.”

“Prescott?”

“Her father’s name is Dwight Prescott.”

“No, it’s Dwight Handford.”

“He said it was Prescott. He had a driver’s license, Social Security number, Sarasota address,” said Sally, putting her hand on Beryl’s. “Since Adele confirmed he was her father and… Mrs. Tree, they said you were dead.”

“Adele told you I was dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“He made her,” Beryl said. “She was afraid of him.”

“She came to Sarasota on her own to look for him, Mrs. Tree,” said Sally. “That’s a brave thing to do for a sixteen-year-old girl.”

“She told you she was sixteen?”

“Yes.”

“She’s fourteen,” said Beryl. “Her birthday was on the fourth of last month.”

Sally sat back, sighed, closed her eyes and looked up at me. I nodded to confirm what Beryl had said so far.

“Your daughter got in trouble with the police,” Sally said. “They referred her and her father to us. The referral was mandatory, court ordered. That meant they had to work with us.”

Someone laughed, a man on a telephone not far away.

“What kind of trouble?”

“She was soliciting,” Sally said, taking Beryl’s hand again.

Beryl nodded. She knew what that meant and the information didn’t seem to surprise her. It hurt, but she wasn’t surprised.

“Where is she now?” asked Beryl.

“We don’t know,” said Sally. “We’re looking for her. Her father hasn’t been very cooperative and… we’re looking. Beryl, Adele said some things to me that… How can I put this? Did your husband ever abuse your daughter?”

“Hit her?”

The pause was long.

“Sexually,” said Sally.

This pause was even longer. I turned away.

“I…” Beryl began. “I don’t know for sure. He went to prison for

…”

“He sexually abused a young relative,” I said.

“I thought maybe when Adele was…” Beryl said. “But I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. Adele never said anything. I can’t think.”

“I understand. Are you going to be in town for a while?”

“Till Adele and I get on a train, plane or bus out of here,” she said.

“Is there anywhere I can reach you?”

Beryl looked up at me. I gave Sally my home-office number.

“Mrs. Tree’ll be staying with a friend. I think you should know that she ran into her husband two days ago. He hit her. Then he called her this morning and threatened to kill her if she didn’t stop looking for her daughter.”

“Did anyone hear the threat?” asked Sally.

“I did,” said Beryl.

“Anyone else?”

“No,” I said.

We exchanged looks that said we both knew there was nothing the law could do.

“I’ll call Mr. Fonesca if we find Adele,” Sally said, getting up and helping Beryl to her feet.

“Thank you,” said Beryl.

“I’ll meet you at the elevator,” I said to Beryl. “I’ve got to ask Ms. Porovsky something.”

Beryl nodded and. moved toward the elevator.

“The answer is yes,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Dinner, remember?”

“I remember,” I said. “Tomorrow night. Seven?”

“That’s cutting it a little tight,” she said. “I’ve got a home visit in Englewood till five. Make it seven-thirty.”

“Dress casual,” I said.

“Fonesca, this might be a mistake for both of us.”

“Might be,” I agreed.

She handed me a card. I turned it over. There was a phone number and address in ink:

“Seven-thirty, then. You like kids?”

“Huh?”

“I have two kids, a boy and girl. Thirteen and nine.”

“I like kids,” I said.

“Well, be prepared for these two. Dinner only, quick, home and friendly. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” I said, looking at Beryl at the elevator. “I’m not dangerous.”

“I wouldn’t have said yes if I thought you were,” she said. “In my work, I see dangerous people all the time.”

“Since we’re on the subject, think you can give me Handford’s address?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “But I gave Mrs. Tree his current name. I think you heard it.”

“Prescott,” I said.

She said nothing.

“Dwight Prescott,” I said.

“Got to get back to work,” she said. “See you tomorrow night.”

John Detchon waved to us from behind his receptionist’s desk as we left the building. He seemed to be reasonably happy. I wasn’t sure how I was feeling.