Retribution lf-2 Page 16

  “Someone tried to kill you?” Flo said, coming a bit out of her fog.

  “Someone shot at me,” I said.

  “Because of Adele?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But that’s a good guess. Let’s go.

  “Ten percent off on the next rental,” Alan called as I went out the door with Flo behind me.

  Alan followed us out while I helped Flo in and went around to the driver’s side. I looked at Alan and said, “You could have called me before you called the police.”

  Alan nodded.

  I got in and drove off heading south. Flo wanted to talk but she didn’t have anything to say. I turned on the radio and got two thirty-year-olds talking about the best time of the day to have sex. I changed the station and got a woman psychologist who was setting up brick walls against sex. I wasn’t thinking about sex. I pushed another button and got Louis Prima and Keely Smith singing “That Old Black Magic.”

  “What do I do while I’m waiting if I don’t drink?” Flo mumbled.

  “Eat, look at the water, watch television, read a book, listen to your records,” I suggested.

  “Without Adele, something’s missing. I fill the something with whiskey sours and gin and fruit.”

  “Buy a business,” I suggested.

  “What?”

  “You’ve got money. Buy a business.”

  “Gus and I had one. I didn’t like it. Got on my knees and said thanks to the Lord when he retired.”

  “Buy one you like,” I said, turning west on Oak right near the DQ. We were in Washington Park, clearly marked, a neighborhood of upscale homes, some of the oldest and best maintained in Sarasota. It looks like an MGM 1940s street where Andy Hardy might have a girlfriend. When I wasn’t in a hurry I’d bicycle through Washington Park, driving back in time for a few blocks to Osprey, which I did now.

  “Like what kind of business?”

  “I don’t know. Get a small place that specializes in western records or open a little bar where you can get bands in to play country.”

  “Good advice,” she said. “I’ll think about it. What about you?”

  “Me?”

  ’Take a big step back to the land of the living,” she said. “Hold my hand. I’ll teach you to square-dance. You tell me to get a life. I’m telling you right back.”

  She was right. I had no business telling Flo Zink how to live or die. We were silent the rest of the way to Flo’s.

  “Think about it,” I said, pulling into her driveway. “And let me know if Adele calls.”

  She opened the door.

  “Want to come in for a drink? Beer for you. Sprite for me.”

  “I don’t think…”

  We could hear the phone inside ringing. Flo left the door of my car open and ran for the house. I got out, leaving my door open too, and followed her as she found her keys, scrambled in, and ran for the phone.

  “Hello,” she said.

  I stood next to her.

  “Sorry? You’re sorry? You’ve got a goddamn good reason to be sorry,” Flo said, a bit of her old self emerging. “Where the hell are you? What the hell are you doing?… I was in jail all night. That’s where I was. That’s why I didn’t answer the fuckin’ phone… No, I’m all right. I won’t be driving for a while, probably never, but I’m all right. Are you coming back?… No, I just got some ramrod back and I’m asking you a question? I made it before you and I’ll make it again. I’ve got some plans… Yes, I want you back, but this old broad is getting flatter and softer since you started playing games again. I don’t much care for the woman you’re talking to, but I mean to… Fine, here he is. I’m going to take a bath and watch the boats from the deck and think about better times when Gus was alive and kicking ass.”

  She looked angry now, more than a bit of the old Flo. She handed me the phone.

  “Lew?” Adele asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Can you help her?”

  “Can you?”

  “I’m not finished,” Adele said. “I’ve got a lot of work left. You told him what I destroyed?”

  “I told Lonsberg what you destroyed,” I said.

  “How’s Mickey?”

  “He’s confused,” I said. “He’s in my office waiting for me. Why don’t you meet us there?”

  “I can’t,” she said. “I’m not done. There’s hurting to be done. Did you read Plugged Nickels?’ she asked.

  “Some of it,” I said. “It’s not my kind of book.”

  “Chapter six, first five paragraphs,” she said.

  “What about them?”

  “Read them,” she said.

  “I’m getting too old for games, Adele,” I said.

  “I was too old when I was twelve,” she said. “My father was screwing me and I was turned over to a pimp when I was thirteen, but you know all that. So a little game playing won’t hurt you or me. I missed out on game playing when I was growing up and going down.”

  “I’ll read it,” I said. “But I’ve got a condition.”

  “No more manuscripts destroyed. Not for a day or two. You bought time by helping Mickey.”

  “Have you any idea who took a shot at me last night?” I asked.

  “Son of a bitch shot at you?” she screamed. “Tell the legend I’m tearing two of his books right now. Tearing them and throwing them into the Gulf. Rains Rising and Childhood on Fire”

  “I thought you weren’t going to destroy any more manuscripts. We have a truce.”

  “Screw the truce,” she said. “You want to get killed? Mickey’s grandfather was a good man. So are you. Flo’s a good woman. Ames is…”

  “But not you,” I said.

  “No, not me,” she said soberly. “It’s in the genes and the jeans. He saw it in me. I thought I could be… What’s the use. Tell him the titles and take care of yourself and Flo and Mickey.”

  “I didn’t sign on as a baby-sitter,” I said. “I signed on to find you. Come to my office. No strings. I won’t hold you. Just you, me, and Mickey.”

  “Battery’s low,” she said. “Needs recharging. I’ll think about it.”

  She hung up.

  “Well?” asked Flo, brushing back her mess of hair.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “She’s an angry girl.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  I thought but didn’t say that Adele was going to get someone very hurt or very dead if she didn’t stop this mind game with Lonsberg. What I didn’t know was how soon I would find out how right I was.

  When I got back to my office and opened the door Mickey Merrymen was against the wall. His father was in front of him, his fist raised ready to strike at an already bloody face.

  10

  At this point I want to make some things clear. First, I am in reasonably good physical shape. I bicycle. I work out four or five times a week. I’m a little on the thin side, a bit taller than short, and I don’t have the kind of face that tells people violence lurks behind it ready to explode at some minor infraction of my space or sentiments.

  I could also add at this point that I don’t do violence. Most sane and sober human beings could say the same things, but I’ve seen and imagined too much violence from that very active minority of violent humanity. I couldn’t hit anyone. I won’t carry a gun.

  Ann Horowitz once asked me what I would do if my own life or the life of a loved one were being immediately threatened. I said I would try to save them, but there was no sincerity or passion in my answer. Yes, I would try to save them and I had no intention of letting myself be killed without trying to do something about it. It was the extreme situation Ann had given. Most violent situations did not push me into a corner of the extreme.

  And so instead of leaping forward, turning Merrymen around, and slamming my fist into his nose or throat, I shouted, “No.”

  Merrymen’s fist froze in the air and he turned from his son toward me. Mickey
slumped back against the wall.

  “They think I killed that old fart,” he said, advancing on me. “You and Mickey gave them the idea that I killed Charlie. The cop told me.”

  Viviase was doing what a good cop should do when he wasn’t sure where he was going. He was throwing dust in the air and seeing if it bothered someone enough to lead to answers. In this case, he had turned loose a less than fully sane Michael Merrymen with the idea that his son and I had pointed the finger at him. He wasn’t completely wrong.

  The fist was up and ready. My plan, to the extent that I had one, was to get through the door and run. There was a flaw in the plan. Either Merrymen would come after me, and I doubted that he could catch me, or he would turn back on Mickey whose teeth were red with blood.

  I wasn’t sure I liked Mickey, but I was sure I was not going to run out on him. If the Lone Ranger hadn’t shown up, I was going to be beaten into something like Tropicana orange pulp, or I’d get in a good or lucky punch and stop Merrymen.

  The Lone Ranger arrived. He stepped into the room standing tall, unmasked, years older than I had remembered him from television.

  Ames took in the story as he stepped into the room. Just as Merrymen was turning to face him, Ames stepped forward and threw a bony elbow into the younger man’s face. Flannel backed by bone hit flesh and Merrymen staggered back.

  The phone started to ring. Ames moved to pick it up, which didn’t strike me as the thing to do in this situation.

  Merrymen, now bloody and broken-nosed, pushed himself away from the wall and headed toward Ames with a gurgling sound that could have been his own animal reaction or the result of blood dripping into his throat.

  The phone hit Merrymen in the chin just as Merrymen put his open hand out toward Ames’s eyes. This time Merrymen went down. He hit the floor hard and rolled over groaning, his hands covering his face.

  “For you,” said Ames, handing me the phone.

  I took it and Ames moved to help Mickey to his feet.

  “Fonesca,” I said.

  “Horowitz,” said Ann. “Are you incapacitated?”

  “Huh?”

  “If you are going to miss an appointment, you need only dial my number and give me an excuse, preferably the truth.”

  “Things happened,” I explained, looking at the not so very Merrymen.

  “That is the nature of life,” she said. “You are late. Are you coming?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Ten minutes.”

  She was less than five minutes away and I shouldn’t have trouble parking at this hour.

  “Ten minutes. I’ll explain when I get there.”

  I hung up the phone and used a tissue from the dispenser on my desk to wipe the blood off its corner before putting it down.

  “How’s Mickey?” I asked.

  “He’ll be fine,” said Ames who had sat the boy on one of my folding chairs.

  Michael Merrymen rolled over and looked up at me. He was a mess.

  “I’m suing you and that old man,” he said, glaring at me.

  It was hard to understand what he was saying. His nose was bent to one side and his jaw was swelling rapidly.

  “I’m sure you’ll win,” I said as he sat up still on the floor. “Can you drive yourself to the emergency room?”

  He didn’t answer, rolled on one side, and managed to get up on wobbly legs. He put his hand on his head and groaned.

  “Hit my head,” he said.

  “I saw,” I answered.

  “Why are you all after me?” Merrymen suddenly said, his arms outstretched, his eyes moving from me to Ames to his son.

  “It’s called paranoia,” I said.

  “Bullshit,” Merrymen said, spitting blood on my office floor. I handed him a wad of tissues. He took them and applied them to his face.

  “You’ve got a club in one hand and a target on your back,” said Ames, looking into Merrymen’s eyes. “Then you scream, ‘Here I am.’ That’s why people are after you.”

  “You don’t understand,” Merrymen said.

  “All I’ve got to say,” said Ames, turning his back on the ranting bloody man.

  “The door’s over there,” I said.

  “You people just don’t understand,” he shouted. “You don’t listen. You don’t… what’s the use. Mickey, if you come home, there’s a dog waiting to greet you.”

  And with that Merrymen staggered out of the door. I looked out of my window and our eyes met. This was not a friendly departure.

  “I have an appointment,” I said.

  “I’ll take care of him,” said Ames. “You want him here when you get back?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’ll get him one of those things you drink from the Dairy Queen and some ice for his face,” Ames said.

  “I’ll be back soon. By the way, what made you arrive just in time for the rescue?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the morning’s Sarasota Herald-Tribune. It was folded so that I could see the small article and the photograph at the bottom. The headline over the photograph read: “Murder Attempt on Motorist.” There was a picture of me inset in the small article. The picture was the same one I had taken for my process server’s license. I looked like a cockeyed smirking chimp, the very prey any sensible hunter looking for an easy target might take a shot at.

  “Thought you might need help,” said Ames.

  “You were right,” I said. “I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

  Ann Horowitz was on the telephone when I arrived. She looked at me over the top of her glasses and motioned for me to close the door and take my usual seat. I did.

  “Listen,” she told her caller, “my next client just came in. But I’ll give you advice. You called to sell me insurance on dying people. It’s an interesting idea. I give you money and then wait till my person dies. I check the obituaries or wait for you to call saying, ‘Good news, Emily Jacobs just died.’ Sensible but an aura of morbidity that I find strange. My question is, ‘How do you feel about selling the death?’… The word ‘fine’ came too suddenly to your lips as if you wanted to leap over some chasm and come out on the other side with a smile. What if I took my insurance out on your life? Don’t answer. You’ve been doing this how long? Six months. And you are making money as you promise I will. I have a question for you to consider, but I haven’t time now to hear your answer. The question is, what do you think is the meaning of your life? Answer it and then call yourself a liar and tell the liar to tell the truth. You have my number. If you want to make an appointment to see me to talk over your answer, call. My charge is one hundred dollars a session. Now, good-bye.”

  She hung up the phone and settled back.

  “No offering?” she asked, looking at my empty hands. “No biscotti, no scone, no rugelach, not even a donut?”

  “I didn’t have time,” I said. “I was dealing with a lunatic in my office who was trying to kill me.”

  “He didn’t succeed,” she said calmly. “I’ve got some raisins in the drawer.”

  “No thanks.”

  “We can drink my coffee,” she said.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  I had twice tried Ann’s coffee. It was thick, bitter, and I never saw her drink it.

  “Why did this man want to kill you?” she asked.

  “Because he’s crazy. He thinks everyone is trying to… he’s paranoid. Nuts. A loony. He beat up his son in my office.”

  “Your clients sound almost as interesting as mine,” she said, opening a nearby drawer and pulling out a clear, small Ziploc bag of raisins that she opened and began to eat.

  “We’ll compare notes sometime,” I said.

  “Now is a good time,” Ann answered, looking up at her wall clock. “We still have forty-five minutes. So, I’ll start with a question. Why does a hermetic, depressed recluse have any clients at all outside of those for whom he serves papers?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Common denominator,” she
asked.

  I’d heard that phrase before today. It had more than a hint of deja vu.

  “People come to me,” I said. “I don’t ask for them. I don’t want them.”

  “But you don’t turn them down,” she said, nibbling a raisin. “Why? You’ve described some of your clients in past sessions. I see a common denominator. I may be wrong but it’s a place to start.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “They all remind you of the most important person in your life,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “You, Lewis Fonesca. They are all sad cases. People calling out for help with no one to turn to. A runaway wife, a wife whose husband is dying, a runaway girl, an old man who has been robbed by his partner. And you help them as you cannot help yourself.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “And then what do you do with them?” she asked.

  “Do with them?”

  “When you solve their problem. What do you do?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “You make the survivors part of a family you are rebuilding,” she said. “You lost your family and so you are rebuilding one and at the same time you reject it. You are an interesting case, Lewis.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I didn’t say you were the most interesting case I ever had,” she said. “You know Joe Louis the boxer?”

  “Of course.”

  “I treated him once for a while,” she said. “Nice man. Paranoid like the man you had in your office. Thought everyone was trying to kill him, particularly the Mafia. He would never give up the idea. He had evidence, proof, a distortion of reality that bordered on the creativity of a Borges. He was more interesting than you are, but you will do. So?”

  “So?” I repeated.

  “Did anything I just said do anything? How did it make you feel?”

  “It made sense, I suppose.”

  “It made sense,” she said in exasperation. “Of course it made sense, but did it feel right to you? Did you have an epiphany? A sudden jolt of understanding?”

  “No.”

  “Sense and feeling are not always in agreement,” she said. “You sure you don’t want some raisins?”

  I accepted some raisins.

  “When you feel it, it works. When it just makes sense, it doesn’t work. The truth must touch your soul.”