Midnight Pass lf-3

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  He started at me with sincerity and unblinking eyes. He was good, but I could see there was another reason for wanting Midnight Pass left closed lurking behind those deep, brown eyes.

  “It will be the last item on the agenda and probably won’t come up till after midnight on Friday. I’ve got the feeling that a few of my fellow board members whose views differ from mine will have lots to say on the earlier items such as tearing up Clark Road again or replacing blighted trees on Palm Avenue. We’ll listen to the public and then discuss and vote on Midnight Pass. The vote won’t be subject to review unless there’s a violation of the state or federal constitution.”

  Wilkens basically represented Newtown, the African-American ghetto in Sarasota running about four blocks or more in either direction north and south of Martin Luther King Jr. Street. The far south end of what could be called Newtown was within walking distance of downtown. A curious man might have wondered what the Midnight Pass business in another district forty minutes south had to do with Newtown. I wasn’t curious.

  I was about to say, “What’s this got to do with me?” when Fernando Wilkens told me.

  He leaned over and whispered, “I’ve got the votes.”

  “The votes?”

  “To keep the Pass closed,” he said. “There are five members on the County Commission. Votes involving contracts for millions of dollars are routinely decided by simple majority.”

  I nodded to show him that I was paying attention.

  “I have your assurance that this is a privileged conversation?” he asked softly, though no one was listening. He looked around to see if we were being watched by anyone. Cars drove by but on a day like this only teens, joggers, and the homeless wandered the streets of Sarasota.

  It’s privileged. How did you find me?” I asked. “And why?”

  I’m not listed in the phone book, either in the white pages or in the yellow pages. I’m a process server with even less ambition than DQ Dave. I work as little as I can, live as cheaply as I can, and have as little to do with people as I can. I checked my watch and glanced at my bicycle leaning against the side of the DQ. If I didn’t get going in the next five minutes and pedal hard, I’d be late.

  “My lawyer, Fred Tyrell,” Wilkens said. “He told me about you.”

  I nodded. Tyrell was the token black in the downtown law firm of Cameron, Wyznicki, Forbes, and Littlefield. No “Tyrell.” Tyrell’s job was to take minority clients and even drum them up. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes even the most committed African-American activists wanted a smart white lawyer, preferably a Jewish one. Cameron, Wyznicki, etc., had one of those too, Adam Katz. I think the firm took him in about a decade before I came simply because of his last name. I had done work for both Katz and Tyrell. The partners had their own short list of investigating and process-serving private detectives and process servers, though I got most of my business from another law firm, Tycinker, Oliver, and Schwartz on Palm Avenue.

  I nodded again, looked at my empty cup.

  I’m what is usually called medium height and probably seen as being on the thin side, but I pedal to the downtown Y every day, work out for at least an hour three times a week, and have grown hard in a town of white sand beaches and lazy hot days. I grew hard to stay away from my own desire to turn into a vegetable.

  “Parenelli will vote with me,” said Wilkens.

  I nodded a third time. This was no surprise. Parenelli was the closest thing we had to a radical liberal on the council. He was old, crusty, had moved down from Jersey thirty years ago, and would have gladly voted for Eugene V. Debs for governor if Debs were alive and eligible. Sometimes the other council members kept certain issues until late in each session in the hope that Parenelli would be too tired to protest or might even doze off. Parenelli was too crafty an old socialist to let that work. He sat with his thermos of black coffee, did crossword puzzles while he pretended to take notes, and waited for the big vote.

  Three commission members always voted together on money issues. They would furiously debate for hours whether they should approve an unbroken or broken yellow line down the middle of the recently widened Tuttle Avenue, and you would never know how that one would go, but on expenditures, they were closer together than the Statler Brothers. That left Wilkens and Parenelli together on social issues. Votes of three to two were common, but it was even more common to have unanimous votes because most issues were without controversy and without interest to even the commission members.

  “The way I count it, you’re one vote short.”

  “Trasker,” the Reverend Wilkens whispered, leaning even closer to me.

  I thought delusion had set in on Wilkens and considered advising him to wear a hat and stay indoors. I had a University of Illinois baseball cap I could offer him, but I didn’t think he’d accept the gift or use it.

  I even considered inviting him across the parking lot to my barely air-conditioned office and living closet, but decided that whatever confidence he might have in me would be gone with his first view of my professional headquarters.

  “William Trasker is one of the block of three,” I said.

  Wilkens smiled. Nice teeth. Definitely capped.

  “William Trasker is dying,” he said solemnly, though I had the feeling that Trasker’s impending death didn’t completely displease him.

  “Trasker came to my church office day before day before yesterday,” Wilkens went on. “Told me, said there was nothing they could do to him now and that he’d enjoy surprising the commission by voting with me. It was to be a done deal.”

  “Still two questions,” I said, pitching the empty cup toward the white-plastic-lined metal mesh trash basket and sinking it for a solid two points. “First, what did Trasker mean by saying there was nothing ‘they’ could do to him now? Second, what do you need me for?”

  “Trasker wouldn’t say much,” said Wilkens, “but we were either talking past payoffs or things someone had on him for some of the less than legal deals he might have made for his contracting business. Since Trasker is up to his kneecaps in money, I’d say it was the contracting deals. We’ve got buildings in this town that crumble after a decade. Trasker’s company put up a lot of them, some of them public buildings. It doesn’t cost him anything to go out on the side of righteousness. Get him some good headlines and maybe a ticket to heaven, though I think the good Lord will look hard and long at the scales of this man’s life before making a decision to let him enter the gates.”

  “And me?”

  “I can’t comment on your chances of eternal peace,” he said with a smile. “I can tell you what I want from you. William Trasker is missing. I want you to find him, get him to that meeting on Friday so he can vote. If he doesn’t show up, we deadlock. If Trasker dies, we have an election fast, and I have no doubt given the constituency and the inclination of both parties, the new member will probably not vote with us. In addition, Parenelli stands a good chance of being defeated himself in the next open election.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I’m the token everything with Parenelli gone,” said the Reverend Wilkens. “The token black, the token liberal, the token clergyman. I am the exception that supposedly proves fairness. Every hypocrite in the business community will support me, even those who don’t live in District One, which I represent.”

  “How do you know Trasker is missing?”

  “I called his office,” said Wilkens. “He hasn’t come in since he came to see me. I called his home. His wife didn’t want to talk, but said Trasker was out of town on a family emergency and she had no idea when he would be coming back. I called the police and they asked me what the crime was?”

  “You think he’s in town?” I asked.

  “I pray he’s in town,” said Wilkens. “He led me to believe that he didn’t have very much time and that even coming to the meeting Friday would be against his doctor’s recommendation. I find it difficult to believe under the circumstances that he would go out of town for any reas
on. I want you to find him.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I can’t do it. I can recommend a good private investigator in Bradenton, Wayne Barcomb. He’s in the phone book. I’ve got to go now. I’m late for an appointment.”

  I started to rise. He put his hand gently on my arm.

  “The money we save can be put to good use to support improvements in the African-American community. My dream is a renovated Newtown with decent housing and safe streets. We’ve started but we’ve got a long way to go, and I don’t want limited resources going to projects that make the rich richer. I’m asking only that you do your best for a few days to find a sick man so he can do one final decent thing.”

  “I’ve got some papers to serve and something I’ve got to do that’ll take me out of town for a few days. Today’s Monday. If I go out of town tomorrow and Wednesday, that’ll give me what’s left of today, Thursday, and Friday till midnight. Not much time.”

  “But it can be done,” said Wilkens. “You can do it.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can I persuade you?”

  I thought about that for about five seconds.

  “Can you get someone’s driver’s license back for them?” I asked.

  “DUI?”

  “Yes, more than a couple, but she’s clean and sober now. Needs her van because she’s taking care of a baby.”

  “Her baby?”

  “Flo’s in her sixties,” I said. “The baby belongs to an unmarried student at Sarasota High. Girl’s mother was murdered by her father. A prominent member of this community, now in jail, gave her heartbreak and a baby.”

  “Girl is black?”

  “Girl is white,” I said. “So is Flo.”

  “Last name of this Flo lady?” Wilkens said.

  “Zink. Florence Zink. Lives in the county.”

  “Are you a Catholic, Mr. Fonesca?”

  “A lapsed Episcopalian.”

  “But I understand your word is good.”

  “My word is good,” I said.

  My “word,” my few pieces of furniture, a pile of prescreened videotapes, an old television and VCR, and a bicycle were all I had. The only “good” thing in that list was my “word.”

  “She will not lapse?” he asked. “If she were to and it was discovered that I had helped her get her license…”

  “She will not lapse,” I said.

  “It can be done,” he said, sitting back. He had done his best and now his eyes were fixed on me, waiting.

  “Let’s say Flo gets her license back, and I get three hundred dollars flat fee for the job plus the cost of car rental,” I said. “I’ve got a deal with the low-cost place down the street so a three-day won’t be much. Give me your card and I’ll have them bill you for the car. The other business I have to do will take care of two days on the rental.”

  “That will be satisfactory,” he said, holding out a large right hand and a smile. “Florence Zink?”

  “Florence Zink.”

  We shook and he immediately reached into his pocket and counted out four fifties and five twenties. He handed the money to me along with his card. On the back in dark ink was his home number.

  “Want a receipt?” I asked.

  “Under the circumstances, I would prefer as little in writing as possible,” he said, rising. “For a change, if necessary, Parenelli and I will stall on other issues on the agenda on Friday. Members of my congregation will also be present to speak out at the open forum. I would guess that we can keep the meeting going till at least midnight. I would also guess, if they truly don’t know yet, that the block will want to wait for Trasker, assuming he will vote with them. They don’t want a deadlock any more than we do.”

  The Reverend Wilkens stood, shading his eyes and looking toward the sun almost overhead, and then grasped my right hand in both of his. I felt as if I had just been baptized again.

  “Find him, Lewis,” he said. “I’ll pray for you to find him.”

  He got into a clean, dark green, five- or six-year-old Buick about a dozen yards away in the small parking lot and pulled out, waving at me.

  This wasn’t going to be easy, but it was probably only a day’s work and I had just pocketed three hundred dollars. If I hurried, I could rent a car and get to my appointment on time instead of pedaling and being late.

  Adding the three hundred to the five hundred my other client had given me Friday and the two hundred I had saved, the cash in the toe of my other pair of shoes in my office came to a thousand dollars. I was suddenly a rampant capitalist and I had papers for two summonses to serve.

  There was a small flush through the broad gray hush of my existence, trying to lure me toward wanting even more, toward a sense of tomorrows to come. I did not want to think about tomorrows to come.

  I brought my bike up to my office, locked it inside, and went down the street to the EZ Economy Car Rental Agency, where Fred, large of belly, nearing retirement, constantly eager, stood talking to his partner, Alan, large, forties, hard to convince. They played good agent and bad agent with their customers. I was used to it and suffered it to keep from hurting their feelings.

  “Social call?” asked Fred. “Bring us some donuts and coffee from Gwen’s so we can sit around and talk about the economy.”

  “Need a car,” I said. I wanted to add that I had an appointment and was in a hurry, but I knew that would lead to delaying mode to make me easier to manipulate.

  “How long?” Alan said, as if I had said something that aroused his suspicion.

  “Till Saturday afternoon,” I said.

  “Taking it on the road?” asked Fred with a grin. “Get away. Over to Fort Lauderdale, down to Key West?”

  “Orlando,” I said.

  Alan shook his head as if I had given him the wrong answer.

  “Got a good road car,” said Fred. “Olds Cutlass Sierra, ’ninety-five. Special rate, two hundred. You get a full tank of gas.”

  “Something newer,” I said.

  “The man’s talking serious business here, Alan,” Fred said, moving away from the desk. Alan was still leaning against it.

  “The Nissan,” Alan said.

  Fred clapped his hands and said, “The Nissan,” as if his partner had just discovered a new moon around Jupiter. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Fred told me it was a ’ninety-eight with mileage too good to be real.

  “One hundred and forty-five,” Alan said.

  Fred looked sadly at me and shrugged a what-can-I-do-with him shrug.

  “One hundred,” I said.

  Fred looked at Alan hopefully.

  “One-twenty-five,” Alan said. “You return it full of gas.”

  “Deal,” I said. “Bill it to him.”

  I handed Fred Wilkens’s card. He passed it to Alan, who said, “Moving up in the world, Fonesca.”

  “We’ll need a credit card,” Fred said apologetically.

  “Call him,” I said. “He’ll give you one.”

  “Not our policy,” said Alan.

  “Alan, this is Lew Fonesca, a regular client,” Fred pleaded. “He’s good for it. We know where to find him.”

  Alan folded his arms across his chest. I tried not to look at my watch.

  “All right,” he finally said.

  “Great,” said Fred. “Let’s fill out the papers.”

  “We’ve got some coffee,” Alan said, while his partner moved out of earshot to the rear of the small store, which had once been a gas station.

  “How is he?” I asked softly.

  Fred had had a heart attack the year before. It ranged, according to Alan, somewhere between medium and not too good. In the time Fred had been gone, Alan had been a different person. He had played Fred’s good-guy role, holding the job open for him when he returned a month after his attack and bypass surgery.

  “Doing good,” said Alan. “I watch what he eats when he’s here. His wife, Dotty, watches him at home. He takes his pills. Likes to stay busy. Bus
iness has been slow. When Fred retires, I’m selling out. The land is worth more than we bring in in four years. Fred will have a cushion and I can move back to Dayton.”

  Fred came hurrying back with the papers and the car keys. I signed and initialed in all the right places.

  “Rides like a dream,” Fred said, a hand on my shoulder. “A dream.”

  Car rides in my dreams were not something I thought of as selling points. My dreams were usually bumpy, lost, and dark with basements, which don’t exist in Florida, and ghosts who wouldn’t accept that they were ghosts.

  I was thinking about my wife. There was a reason. I was about to deal with it.

  2

  Twenty-two minutes later, I parked in an open space right in front of Sarasota News amp; Books on Main Street. I went in, picked up two coffees and two chocolate croissants, and walked the short block to Gulfstream Avenue.

  Traffic whooshed both ways down Tamiami Trail in front of me, and beyond the traffic I could see the narrow Bayfront Park with little anchored pleasure and recreational fishing boats gently bobbing in the water.

  Two homeless men made their home in the park across the street. One was an alcoholic, red-faced man with a battered cowboy hat and a guitar. He slept under a bench regardless of the weather and spent the hour or so every night that he wasn’t too drunk playing and singing sad country-and-western songs on Palm Avenue or Main Street with his hat on the sidewalk accumulating coins and an occasional dollar bill until a police car pulled up and a cop leaned out. The cowboy didn’t have to be told to amble on. He would nod to the policeman and move on. I had talked to the singing cowboy a few times because he had a look in his eyes I recognized as being very like my own.

  We didn’t talk about much, not who we were or where we came from. I told him I liked his playing. He told me he liked my baseball cap. I hadn’t seen him around for a while.

  The other homeless man in the park was black, in his thirties and almost always shirtless. He talked to himself a lot and I had talked to him once on the bench in front of the office where I was now heading. I had given him a cup of coffee. He had nodded something that might have been a thanks and had gone back to talking to himself. He, like I, was a man who preferred his own company.