Retribution lf-2

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

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

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

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

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

  “Can you levitate?” I asked.

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

  “I know,” I said.

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

  “No, thanks.”

  “Someone tried to kill you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you want to know ‘who’?”

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

  “Because I’m coming too close.”

  “To what?”

  “Damned if I know,” I said.

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

  “I didn’t mean…”

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

  “I’m lost,” I said.

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

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

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

  “Henry Hudson,” I said.

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

  “Interesting. There’s a point here?”

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

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

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

  “Samuel Hearne?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I stopped and looked back at her.

  “Can you say her name?”

  “Catherine,” I said immediately.

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

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

  “No.”

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

  “I’m not sure I want to,” I said.

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

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

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

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

  “Got some calls,” Ames said.

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

  “Any sound important?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  There was a double beep and the tape rewound.

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

  “Who do I call first?” I asked Ames.

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

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

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

  “Ames? Anytime.”

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

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

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

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

  “I always do,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  It struck him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “City Desk, Rubin,” he said.

  “You called.”

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

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

  “Conrad Lonsberg, the writer?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

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

  “A reliable source,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “And? Did you like it?”

  “No.”

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

  “She loved it. I’m not an idiot.”

  “Neither am I,” I said and hung up.

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

  “Let’s go,” I said, standing.

  “Need firepower?” Ames asked.

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

  “Maybe something small,” I said.

  “Got to stop at the Texas,” he said.

  “Right. Let’s go, Mickey.”

  “Where?” Mickey asked.

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

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

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

  “I can’t go,” he said.

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

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

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

  “A lot,” he said, slumping back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He knocked and called, “Adele.”

  No answer.

  “Adele, I’m hurt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  11

  Things are not always as they seem. Skim milk masquerades as cream.

  I don’t remember which Gilbert and Sullivan operetta that’s from but I remember my wife singing it softly in front of the mirror one morning when she was getting into one of her serious suits for the second or third day of a case she was trying. It was a reminder, a mantra for her. I have tried it on myself many times since. It makes more sense each time.

  We took Mickey to the ER at Sarasota Memorial and sat in the waiting room while he was being looked at, treated, and then forgotten for about an hour.