A Mighty Fortress

by S. D. Thames

  So it was fitting that I dreamed it didn’t.

  Instead, I awoke to an empty bed. Some of Val’s clothes were still strung around my bedroom. I called out for her, and she said she was going outside to get some fresh air.

  I pulled on a pair of shorts, grabbed a T-shirt, and joined her.

  When I reached my backyard, white lights were strung from every corner of my lot, intersecting at the old magnolia near the center of my yard. I didn’t see Val, but there was quite a feast underway on the picnic table beneath the magnolia. The kid from Texas was on one side, seated next to Rico. Angie’s mom sat across from them. It looked like the same spread I’d dreamed about earlier: a large platter with mounds of grilled lamb, thin cuts of pita bread, and fruits of some sort. There were stone casks atop the table, too, and everyone had a large tumbler filled with wine that looked black under the light of the moon.

  Someone snuck up behind me and covered my eyes. Then I heard Val ask, “Aren’t you going to join them?”

  It didn’t look like there was much room at the table, and something about the sight made me feel nervous and jittery. “I don’t know,” I said. “What are they doing here?”

  “It’s a party, for you. Why don’t you join them?”

  I turned to look at Val, but I couldn’t find her. “Where are you?” I asked.

  “I’m going home, Milo. I’m going home.”

  “Val?” I turned and scanned every corner of my backyard. But Val had disappeared.

  A surprising breeze swept over me, and I felt like calling Hector over and inviting him to partake. But the kid from Texas was already calling me over. I walked over to him, nervously.

  “How you doing, man?” he asked, his drawl as thick as ever.

  I told him I was great, and did my best not to look down. I didn’t want to see how he’d healed up.

  “Don’t worry about me, man. I’m good as new, Porter.”

  It was as though he reminded me of my name, and then I glanced across the yard and saw Gus standing in the shadows like a security guard.

  I wanted to ask him where Mom was, but he suddenly looked distracted by something in the sky. His eyes moved heavenward, and mine followed.

  Then I glanced back at Gus, and our eyes locked. “We got work to do, Milo. A lot of work to do.”

  I nodded and gripped the table as Gus looked up again.

  My eyes followed. Fiery lights were descending on us now. They looked like mortars from WWI, but they were moving in slow motion, moving slow enough that I thought I could catch them. I started for them, and the kid from Texas told me not to worry about it.

  “Why the hell not?” I asked.

  “Because it’s just your doorbell ringing. It’s just your doorbell, Porter.”

  And so it was, I realized, after I awoke in a panic. My breath was short, my head soaked in sweat. I leaped out of bed and felt the heat of daylight pressing on my bedroom. This time, at least, Val was still in my bed; and whoever had been ringing the doorbell had given up on that and turned to beating on the door.

  I looked outside, expecting to see C-Rod’s Malibu or a police cruiser. Instead, I saw only my Volvo in the driveway.

  Then there was a violent sound, like someone was knocking my door in. I pulled on my shorts and started to reach for the Sig.

  When I heard what sounded like a cadre of men rushing through my hallway, I knew I didn’t have time for that.

  The door to my bedroom flew open, and a wave of relief washed over me when I saw Rico Aguilar barely fit through the doorway. He panted hard and yelled my name. Then he saw his sister asleep in my bed. “You’re sleeping together, Porter?”

  “Rico?” Val sat up, covered herself with a sheet.

  Rico shook his head, and then seemed to remember something more important. “We’ll talk about this later. But read this.” He smashed a letter into my hands. “Read this, Porter.”

  So I did. It didn’t take long.

  “Does that say what I think it says?” he asked eagerly.

  “What is it?” Val asked.

  “It’s from the bank,” I told her. “They’re writing his mortgage off as part of some government settlement for unfair lending practices.”

  “What does that mean?” she said.

  “Tell her,” Rico said.

  I glanced at both of them and rubbed my eyes, just to make sure I was reading it right. Once I was sure I wasn’t giving Rico false hope, I said, “It means he gets to keep the gym, and he doesn’t have to pay the mortgage.”

  “None of it?” she said.

  “None of it, right?” he said.

  I nodded reluctantly. “That’s right.”

  Rico picked me up off the ground and squeezed me. I don’t think a grizzly bear could have put more pressure on my spine.

  “See, Porter, see? I told you, didn’t I? I told you it’d work out.”

  I sighed and looked to Val. She seemed as concerned as I did. “That’s great news, Rico,” Val managed.

  “Just do me a favor,” I said.

  With his paws on my shoulders, he said, “What’s that?”

  “Don’t take out another mortgage.”

  He picked me up again and kissed me on the cheek. “Of course not.” Then Rico looked to his sister. She was already getting dressed. “Come on, sis, I’ll walk you home.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked her.

  “I have to work today.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Don’t worry. You can take me out tonight.”

  And with that, they both left. I said goodbye and stared at my empty bed.

  It looked inviting, so I fell into it again.

  I might’ve slept for another half-hour before there was another pounding on the door. I waited a while, but it didn’t go away. So I returned to my window. This time there was a car in the driveway. “You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered. I rubbed my eyes and made sure it was, in fact, Mattie Wilcox’s red Porsche parked in my driveway.

  At least it was straight this time.

  I opened the door to a lukewarm grin. “Good morning,” Mattie said uneasily. He was holding two cups of coffee for us again.

  I let him in and took my coffee before I asked, “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Shit, Porter. I don’t even know where to start.” He flopped down on my couch.

  “You can start with where the hell you’ve been.”

  “Would you believe the Keys?”

  “The Keys?”

  “Key Islamorada, to be precise.”

  “I hope you enjoyed your little vacation,” I said, staring at his faded Guy Harvey t-shirt.

  He took a long sip of his coffee, so I did the same. “I’m done, Porter. I’m done.”

  “Don’t worry, Pilka replaced you and the case is dismissed.”

  “I don’t mean the case. I mean the law. Tampa. Everything.”

  “You know what they say about the heat and the kitchen.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not just the pressure. It’s everything. It’s the rat race.”

  “I have a feeling there are a few detectives downtown who’d like to talk to you before you skip town again, Mattie.”

  “Sure. I got nothing to hide. And I won’t be leaving anytime soon.”

  I took another sip and took a seat on the couch. “So you’ve been in the Keys. But what the hell happened Wednesday night?”

  He took a seat facing me and set his java on my coffee table. “I guess you could say I had a nervous breakdown of sorts.”

  “Where?”

  “At Parker’s fundraiser. No matter what I did that night or who I tried talking to, I kept hearing a voice in the back of my mind.”

  “What was it saying?”

  “It was telling me to run.”

  “So you did. And left Kara behind.”

  “Come on, Porter, I had no idea that was going to happen. I tried calling her the next day. Then I read about what happened in the paper, and I totally lost it. I was
already in Miami. So I went farther south.”

  I shook my head. “It was still cowardly.”

  “So I was a coward. I admit that.”

  “You didn’t even call your client.”

  “I said I’m done, Porter, and I mean that. I’m surrendering my bar card.”

  That surprised me. I took another chug. “Why are you here, Mattie?”

  He took off his shades. “To tell you I’m sorry. Sorry for everything. And to give you this.” He pulled a wad of cash from his shorts and handed it to me. “This is what I owe you.”

  As tempting as it was to take the money, I handed it back. “Pilka paid me.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  He tilted his head back and started laughing.

  I looked at him, and it felt like I was looking at a new person. “Looks like you could grow a nice beard, Mattie. I’m jealous.”

  He rubbed his chin. “I am liking the looks of it. You think Kara will?”

  “Will what?”

  “Like the beard? She’s pulling through, you know? I’ve been calling her room every day.”

  “You’d have to ask her.”

  “I’m going to ask her more than that soon,” he said. “You think she’ll marry me?”

  I coughed on my coffee and stopped myself from spitting it across the table. “Do what?”

  “I’m going to propose to her, Milo, as soon as she’s well enough. You can call me a coward all you want, but there was nothing I could do for her. I’ve already paid her hospital bills. I’ve been thinking about her every day and realized, well, I realized that I love her. And I want to marry her.”

  Mattie stood abruptly. I was relieved I wouldn’t have to comment on what he’d just told me. I’d need a long time to come to terms with that.

  “So that’s all I got, Porter. I’m sorry. I’ll see you around.”

  He reached across the table and gave me his hand. I stood and shook it.

  It felt like I was shaking the hand of a stranger.

  I walked Mattie out and watched his Porsche back out of my driveway at half his usual speed. As I stood under the blistering sun of high noon, I wondered what would become of Mattie, and Kara for that matter. I wondered if I could see them settling down somewhere, Mattie being a father to Kara’s daughter. I knew it would take a miracle for that to happen, and then I wondered how many of those I’d already seen that week. I wasn’t ready to concede any, but I had a lot to think about.

  It seemed that no sooner had Mattie’s Porsche disappeared than a yellow taxi was slowly approaching. It stopped at my driveway. I couldn’t say I was surprised to see Judge Pinkerton waddling my way.

  “Glad to see you’re alive,” he greeted me. “I’ve been calling all morning.”

  “I’m sure my phone’s dead.”

  His eyes turned urgent. “Have you seen the news?”

  One minute later, I tuned my cable box to Bay News 9. The timing was impeccable. The lead story being repeated at the top of the hour explained that prominent Tampa attorney and leading candidate for Florida’s Attorney General, Dane Parker, had been found dead under a highway underpass in South Tampa, a few blocks from the Palma Ceia Country Club. Preliminary reports indicated that he had died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, but the police investigation was still ongoing.

  “You think it was really suicide?” I asked the judge.

  He squinted.

  “After all, you did send the video to Art Scalzo, right?”

  He was still squinting but seemed to catch my drift. “I guess we’ll never know.”

  I hoped he was right.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The Man in Black

  The judge stuck around another hour and helped himself to a few of my pale ales as we continued watching Bay News 9 reporting nothing new on the Parker suicide. Finally, Pinkerton claimed my beer was too strong and called a cab so he could nap the afternoon away. That left a long afternoon for me to kill while I waited for Val to finish work. I sat at my kitchen table and wondered where to begin. The large pile of mail I’d carried in a few days earlier gave me a good idea. I felt I wanted something to take my mind off things.

  I really wanted Gus to appear, but I quickly found myself doubting whether I’d really ever seen him and, if I did, whether I’d ever see him again.

  So I spread a week’s worth of mail across my kitchen table, mostly junk coupons and scam notices that President Obama wanted to buy me health insurance for life. But amidst such refuse, one letter caught my attention the instant I recognized the block print spelling my name. The return address was from Sal Barton. It was the letter he’d mentioned when I was in his hospital room before driving to Miami Friday afternoon. The one he’d begged me not to open.

  I set the letter aside and took a deep breath.

  I told myself to burn the letter, to just burn it now and be done with it.

  But I knew I couldn’t do that.

  I sat at my kitchen table and cried for a good ten minutes after reading Sal Barton’s suicide note, which was the second such letter I’d read in the past twelve hours that was written by a man who ultimately lived. I needed to talk to someone, and Dr. J apparently was still in Miami attending that conference. I wondered whether she was presenting her paper on me, the one about pilsners, power lifting and prayer. So, I said a prayer—a short and choppy one was the best I could muster—and then picked up the phone.

  Pastor Evans answered on the second ring, and agreed to meet me at Southern Brewing, the homebrew bar on Nebraska Avenue in Seminole Heights that we’d been talking about for ages. I showed up five minutes early, and had already downed half a pint when he found me.

  “Good to see you, Milo,” he said, as he slid onto the open stool next to me. “What are we drinking?”

  I gave him an overview of what was on tap today, and described the oatmeal stout that I was enjoying. After hearing my caveat about it not being an ideal drink for August in Tampa, he agreed to play it safe and went with a much lighter red ale. Once he had his beer in hand, the good pastor got to business. “Sounds like some week you had. Rico filled me in on some of what’s happened since I saw you last.”

  “Yeah, some week. I guess it was just getting interesting when I last saw you.”

  “How’s it healing?” he asked, nodding at my jaw.

  “So far, so good, though I’m still not sure whether the beard’s going to come back in that area. Not that it really matters.”

  He was staring straight ahead, and something seemed to be weighing heavily on his mind. “If I didn’t know better, Milo, I’d think you’ve been avoiding me recently,” he said without looking at me.

  I took another sip and nodded. “Yeah, it’s fair to say I’ve been avoiding you.”

  “I guess I can’t blame you for that. It’s not easy to strike the right balance in my profession between caring and being overbearing. I’m sorry if I’ve fallen into the latter camp too much.”

  I shook my head. “It’s nothing you’ve done. It’s me. I haven’t exactly been looking to be honest with those around me. I guess you could say there are things I don’t want to face in life, and, well, in the past you’ve forced me to face them a little more than is comfortable.”

  “I think I know exactly what you’re saying,” he said.

  Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a man pass behind me and take a seat at the far end of the bar. For some reason, I was afraid to stare him down, but his lanky frame and white hair were eerily familiar. I was curious about whether the bartender was going to pay him any attention.

  “Did you hear me, Milo?” Pastor Evans asked.

  “I heard you, pastor.”

  “You seem distracted all of a sudden.”

  I picked up his beer and gave it a whiff, and then took a sip. I’d already drunk about twice as much as he had, and I was nursing mine. “Sorry. This is a little more thinking than I care to do today
.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. All I meant is that all of us, sometimes, have a hard time looking in the mirror. I suppose people think I’m going to make them look in the mirror, and I suppose there’s some truth to that.”

  “I can’t disagree with that,” I said.

  “You know, I have to be honest with you, Milo. Something’s been tearing me up since I saw you last.”

  “I hope it wasn’t something I said,” I laughed. “They had me drugged up pretty good.”

  He laughed back. “No, it wasn’t what you said as much as what I said… or didn’t say.”

  For the first time since he’d arrived, I looked him square in the eyes. “What was that?”

  “You remember asking me about that poor girl whose father threw her off the bridge last week?”

  I nodded and stared at my reflection in my dark stout.

  “You asked me why God, if there is a God, would allow something like that to happen to a young girl.”

  “I remember,” I said, softer than I intended.

  “I wasn’t straight with you on that one.”

  “I honestly don’t remember what you said. You can just—”

  “No, I can’t. You don’t remember it because it wasn’t memorable.”

  I watched as the bartender worked his way across the bar. I still wondered if he was going to wait on the tall guy who was sitting at the far end, and who now seemed to be looking out the window. With his head facing away from me, I built up the courage to take a glance in his direction. His hair was as white as Gus’s hair, and I would’ve thought it was him, but his shirt was black. It might have been a linen guayabara, but it was as black as night. Still, I could feel Pastor Evans drilling me hard with his eyes. “I’m not sure I follow,” I managed to say.