Denial lf-4

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Darrell?” asked Ames.

  “I’m his… I’m spending some time with him today,” I said. “Sally’s idea.”

  Ames understood.

  “I’m going home,” Darrell said, handing me the derringer. “Crazy old man comes in with a shotgun. You got a candy-ass little gun. Crack houses in town that don’t carry this much heat.”

  Ames returned his shotgun to the sling under his yellow slicker.

  “Ames thought you were the person who’s trying to kill me,” I explained.

  “Say what? Someone’s trying to kill you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?” he asked, definitely interested.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “You don’t know who’s trying to kill you,” said Darrell. “At least where I live you know who’s trying to kill you. And all you got to protect you is that crazy old fool and this cap gun?”

  Ames took three steps toward the boy, who took three steps back.

  “Apologize,” said Ames.

  “I apologize, man,” Darrell said, looking at me for support.

  “What are you apologizing for?” Ames asked.

  “I dunno,” said Darrell. “Whatever.”

  “You called me a crazy old fool,” Ames said evenly. “I don’t take that from men or boys.”

  “I’m sorry, hey.”

  Ames shook his head and looked at me. “Saturday,” I said. “The college is closed.”

  “I know,” said Ames.

  “Then why did you come armed for elephants?”

  Ames dug into the pocket of his slicker and came out with a folded sheet of newspaper. He handed it to me and I unfolded it.

  “Turn it over, bottom of the page on the right,” Ames said.

  I found it.

  “It’s him,” I said.

  “It’s him,” Ames agreed. “Face seemed familiar. When I was stacking the newspapers in the recycle bin back of the Texas I found this. In last week’s Friday section.”

  “Hey,” said Darrell, moving toward the door. “It’s been real great, but I’m goin’ home now.”

  “Wait,” I said.

  Darrell didn’t look at me. He looked at Ames, whose eyes met his. Darrell stopped.

  The man in the small picture was the bearded philosopher. His hair wasn’t as white and he was smiling. The small article next to his picture said he was John Wellington Welles, PhD, professor of modern philosophy at Manatee Community College. He had written a book, The Destruction of Moral Definition. He was giving a talk in the Opera House on Main Street at 3 p.m. Admission was free. There would be copies of the book available for sale, which Professor Welles would be happy to sign.

  “You guys dealers?” Darrell asked. “Guns?”

  “No,” I said. “Sometimes we find people.”

  “Like private detectives on those old television shows?” he asked.

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “You don’t look like it.”

  “We fool a lot of bad guys that way,” I said.

  I looked at my watch. Plenty of time to do something with Darrell and get him home before three. Maybe there was an early movie.

  “Ever been to Selby Gardens?” I asked.

  “No, what’s that?” Darrell asked.

  “Place where you look at flowers and trees,” I said.

  “Forget that,” said Darrell. “You been there?”

  “No. But Ames has.”

  The boy looked at Ames.

  “I been there,” he said.

  “Don’t sound like nothing to me,” Darrell said.

  “Jungle Gardens,” I tried. “Animals, birds, gators, snakes.”

  “You been there?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You been anywhere?” Darrell asked.

  I felt like saying, To hell and back, but said, “A few places.”

  “You said DQ and a movie,” Darrell said. “You backing out?”

  “No, but Ames and I have to catch a killer.”

  “Today?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “You shittin’ me again, right?”

  “No.”

  “Kin I go with you?”

  “You wouldn’t have fun.”

  “More fun than looking at flowers and snakes,” he said.

  “We’ve got stops to make. Then you’ll have to hear a white guy with a beard talk about things you won’t understand,” I said.

  “Like?”

  “The destruction of moral definition,” I said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Things are getting worse,” I said.

  “What things?” Darrell asked.

  “People don’t care as much as they used to about what’s good and what’s bad,” I said.

  “Everybody knows that. Old Wyatt Earp here, he gonna blow the mother away?”

  “If I have to,” said Ames.

  Darrell smiled and said, “Way cool.”

  I made a couple of calls. Before I got back that night, there would be a surprise storm and a golfer at Bobby Jones golf course would be struck by lightning and killed. Before I got back that night, someone would come very close to killing me.

  15

  Dixie Cruise lived in a two-room apartment in a slightly run-down twelve-flat apartment building on Ringling Boulevard a block from the main post office.

  I had called the office of Tycinker, Oliver and Schwartz, but not about their client Nancy Root, not exactly. I wanted to reach Harvey, who had a windowless office in the rear of the law firm next to the washroom. Harvey was the firm’s open secret, a computer hacker who, except for a slight problem, could easily be making as much money as Donald Trump was paying whoever was still standing at the end of a season of The Apprentice.

  Harvey was an alcoholic. He would stop for weeks, months, and then disappear. The firm tolerated his crashes from the wagon, encouraged him to seek help through AA or a therapist, but Harvey resisted.

  I knew someone would be at the law office even though it was Saturday morning. In fact, Saturday mornings were busy with clients who had full-time jobs during the week.

  Oliver’s administrative assistant-who back in the days long past would have been called a secretary-said Harvey was not in, was not expected, could not be reached at home, might never come back or might show up Monday morning.

  I went to my second choice, Dixie Cruise. She was home.

  Dixie worked at a coffee bar on Main Street. She was slim, trim, with very black hair in a short style. She was no more than twenty-five, pretty face and wore big round glasses.

  Dixie had the down-home Florida accent of any Bobby Joe or Billy Bob. Dixie was also a computer whiz second only to Harvey. She had the added advantage of always being sober.

  Harvey’s services were free, part of my retainer agreement with the law firm. I had to pay Dixie but her rates were low, very low, fifty dollars an hour, minimum of one hour.

  When I knocked at her door, Dixie opened it, a grilled cheese sandwich in one hand. She looked at me, Ames and Darrell. I introduced them.

  “I’m finishing my brunch,” she said. “Come in.”

  We went into her tiny, neat living room/dining room/bedroom then into a slightly smaller room devoted to two computers with supporting gray metal boxes, stacks and speakers.

  “Got to pick up my mom and dad at the Tampa airport at noon,” she said, sitting in front of a computer and pushing a button. The computer hummed.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” I said.

  She adjusted her glasses, took a bite of her grilled cheese sandwich, placed the sandwich on a paper plate next to the computer and began letting her fingers dance above the keyboard without touching the keys.

  “Name?” she asked.

  Darrell and Ames stood watching.

  “John Wellington Welles,” I said.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” she said, turning to look at me.

  “No.”

  “J
ohn Wellington Welles is a character in a Gilbert and Sullivan show, The Sorcerer. My mom was in it when I was a kid. She took me to every darn rehearsal for a month.”

  “It’s his name,” I said.

  “I’m gonna get me a lot of Gilbert and Sullivan hits. Can you narrow it down some?”

  “He’s a philosophy professor at MCC,” I said.

  “Got it,” Dixie said and started her journey on the Internet highway after inserting a CD in a slit in the computer.

  The CD began to play. A woman began belting out a song.

  “The Pointers,” said Darrell.

  Dixie paused to look at the boy with a smile.

  “My mom plays this stuff all the time,” said Darrell.

  “Your mom has good taste,” Dixie said, turning back to the screen.

  Dixie’s fingers moved in time to “Fire.” The images on the screen kept flashing by as she clicked, pointed, clicked, scrolled. One screen showed a man who might be a much younger version of Welles. I didn’t have time to read any of the words near it or on the other pages.

  “Bank, bank, bank,” Dixie sang in place of the words on the CD. “Can’t hide from the Heart of Dixie.”

  We watched. Dixie took snatches of the grilled cheese sandwich. Three, four, seven, ten minutes. “Fire” became “Automatic.”

  Finally, she pushed a button, sat back with her hands behind her head and waited while one of three printers on the table to the right of the computer began to make noises.

  “Laser life,” she said.

  “Most cool,” said Darrell.

  “You know the Net?” she asked.

  “Know what it is,” said Darrell.

  “Want to come over sometime, I’ll teach you stuff,” she said.

  The printer hummed.

  Darrell looked at me.

  “Ask your mother,” I said.

  Dixie reached over and handed me three sheets that had spewed out of the printer.

  “Want bank records, debt report, medical history?”

  “Maybe,” I said, reading the sheets she had handed me.

  As I finished each one, I handed it to Ames to read.

  I learned that John Wellington Welles was fifty-two years old, born in Canton, Ohio, to Clark Welles and Joyce Welles, both deceased, both high school teachers, he of math, she of English. John Wellington Welles, who had no siblings, had a BS degree in sociology from Syracuse, an MA in linguistics from Cornell and a PhD in philosophy from Columbia. He had taught at Northeastern University in Boston for fourteen years, left a tenured full professorship to move to Sarasota to work at MCC, lower pay, lower prestige and no tenure.

  He had a long list of publications, including a book called Introduction to Ethics, articles in journals, though the latest one had been published six years earlier. Six years earlier, Welles’s wife had died, cancer. They had one daughter who was now nineteen.

  I had his current address, in Bradenton, the make of his car, a Taurus, and even how many payments he had left on it, six. He was paying $234 a month. His house was fully paid for and evaluated at $149,000, which did not put him in the high range of homeowners. Two arrests, both within the last six years, both for assault, neither of which had led to a conviction.

  “Assault,” Ames said.

  “Can you find out about these assault arrests?” I asked Dixie.

  She nodded, took her hands from behind her head and began the search. Darrell moved close, looking over her shoulder, mouth slightly open. The rapidly changing light and colors did a light show across his face.

  It took about five minutes.

  “Both arrests in Boston,” she said. “I’m not printing this stuff out and I’m getting it off my hard drive as soon as I’m done.”

  “Why?” asked Darrell.

  “Because,” Dixie whispered, “it is not legal.”

  Darrell grinned at both Ames and me. I leaned over to read about Welles’s arrests. No alcohol involved. No weapons involved. One incident happened in a department store a day before Christmas. Welles attacked a man named Walter Syckle, broke his nose. Syckle dropped charges. No reason given for the assault. The second arrest was similar. Welles punched a twenty-year-old man in line at a supermarket. Released. Charges dropped. No reason given for the assault.

  “Has a temper,” said Ames.

  “Looks that way,” I said.

  That was all I could get from Dixie. I gave her six twenty-dollar bills. I’d charge it to Nancy Root. Dixie folded the bills, slipped them into her shirt pocket and said, “Thanks,” and then, to Darrell, “I meant it about coming back here. Bring your mother.”

  “She won’t be trusting you. She’ll say you must want something and she got nothing to give.”

  “Bring her,” said Dixie. “I’ll grill cheese sandwiches and we’ll surf for all kinds of good stuff.”

  Ames, Darrell and I left and went to the car.

  “You wondering what I’m wondering?” I asked Ames.

  “Yes.”

  “Why did he leave a tenured job at a university for an untenured one at a community college?”

  “Maybe pushed out,” he said.

  “Or maybe he was running away,” I said.

  “People do it,” he said. “Something happens. They run.”

  He meant me.

  “Want to go to Welles’s house?” Ames said.

  “What’d he do?” asked Darrell from the backseat.

  “Something he seems to feel very sorry about,” I said. “We’ll get him away from the house, at the talk.”

  Ames nodded.

  I drove back to the DQ five minutes away, and got Darrell and myself medium chocolate cherry Blizzards and a Dilly Bar for Ames. We sat at one of the metal tables in front of the DQ the sky rumbling and dark but the rain not yet falling.

  “Never had one of these,” Darrell said, working on his Blizzard. “It’s good.”

  I’m not sure what I was going to say. My eyes were following the cars flowing by; my thoughts were following not much of anything.

  A big truck with RED RIVER CITRUS written on its side over the picture of an orange rumbled by and jerked over a bump.

  A blob of my Blizzard fell in my lap. The truck was gone. Another blob fell but I moved my legs in time. I looked at the cup in my hand. It had a small round hole on one side and another one on the other side.

  “I think someone just shot at me,” I said.

  “Shit,” said Darrell. “You’re dripping.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Ames was up, right hand under his slicker as he looked up and down the street. There were three people in the DQ line. No one was walking down the street.

  “You all right?” he asked, not looking at me.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Someone really shot at you?” asked Darrell.

  I put the Blizzard down. The dripping had slowed. The holes were now above the drink line.

  “Welles,” Ames said.

  “I don’t think so,” I answered.

  I tried to stand but my legs wouldn’t move.

  “Sure you’re all right?” Ames repeated.

  I wasn’t all right. I was numb. It didn’t seem real. Reality is noise, a car skidding toward me, a punch or a doctor telling someone he has a year to live. This had been noiseless.

  “You callin’ the cops?” Darrell asked.

  “No. Let’s go,” I said.

  “Where?” asked Darrell, excited.

  “To see some very old people,” I said.

  “Shit, that’s no fun.”

  “One of them has a pet alligator.”

  “One of those baby things?” asked Darrell.

  “A big one,” said Ames.

  “Name’s Jerry Lee,” I said.

  “Could have hit the boy,” Ames said in a husky whisper, following me to the car.

  “Yes.”

  Ames went silent as we got in and closed the doors. I looked at him. His face was rigid, the muscles of his jaw twi
tching slightly.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I get my barrels on him, I’m pulling,” he said.

  “Maybe we can come up with an alternative,” I said.

  Ames just shook his head once. It was a definite no. Ames rode at my side with the shotgun in his lap and his eyes scanning the faces of the people in every car that passed us.

  At the stoplight at Hillview we pulled up next to a big, yellow Lincoln with a tiny bespectacled woman driver with curly white hair. She turned her head toward us and found herself looking into the eyes of Ames McKinney. She turned her eyes forward again, watching the traffic light.

  When we got to the Seaside, Ames motioned for us to stay in the car. He got out, shotgun under his slicker, and looked around before motioning us to get out.

  “Where’s the gator?” asked Darrell, looking around.

  “Behind the building,” I said.

  “We gonna look at it?”

  “Maybe,” I said, leading the way through the glass doors of the Seaside, which slid open automatically.

  The office doors to our right were closed for the weekend. We made our way to the nursing station, where a tiny black woman in a blue nursing smock was dispensing medicine to an ancient old man with a large freckled bald head. The man took some pills on his tongue, accepted a small plastic cup of water from the nurse and washed down the medicine with a quick gulp.

  The man looked at the three of us, blinked and said, “Is there a carnival in town?”

  “John,” the little nurse admonished, taking back the plastic cup.

  “Well, I mean it,” John said. “Look at them. I worked a carnival summers when I was a kid. We had a couple of Negro midgets.”

  “I ain’t no midget,” said Darrell.

  “You ain’t?” John said, looking astonished. “You fooled me. This other fella, though,” he went on, pointing a bony arthritic finger at Ames, “definitely runs a shooting gallery.”

  “John,” the nurse warned wearily.

  “He’s carrying a gun right under that yellow raincoat,” John said.

  “John likes his little jokes,” said the nurse, who looked beyond tired.

  “I like a good bowel movement too from time to time,” he said. “I don’t ask much.”

  With that John turned his back and shuffled down the hall.

  “Can I help you?” the nurse said, turning to us. She was black, thin, in her mid-forties and obviously tired.