Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) Read online

  “Five jokes,” I said, index cards and pen in hand.

  “Okay,” he said.

  He told the jokes. I wrote them down. I didn’t laugh or smile.

  “You don’t think they’re funny?” he asked as we headed north on Tamiami Trail.

  “They’re funny,” I said, tucking the cards into my appointment book.

  “I like you,” he said. “Do people generally like you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? I mean, I like you, but I’m not sure why.”

  “It’s my curse,” I said.

  “That people like you?”

  “They expect to be liked back.”

  “And you can’t?”

  “I don’t want to,” I said. “The cost is too high, and people die.”

  He looked at me, one hand on the wheel, one grasping a bottle of water, which he squeezed, making a cracking sound.

  “So you have no friends?”

  “Too many,” I said.

  The big two-story gray stone house was right on a cul-de-sac on the water a few blocks south of the Ringling Museum. The house had a front lawn that looked as if it had been manicured with a pair of very small scissors. At the top of the house was a turret which probably had a great view across the water to Longboat Key. A blue Porsche was parked in the driveway in front of a three-car garage. The street had no curb. There was no sidewalk.

  Augustine led the way. I followed up the redbrick path to the front door. Gulls were complaining out over the water, and waves flopped against the shore.

  Augustine pushed a white button in the wooden paneling next to the door. I heard chimes inside, deep and calm. He rang only once, stood back, clasped his hands in front of him, and rocked on his heels waiting.

  “The hat,” he said.

  I took off my Cubs cap folded it over and shoved it in my back pocket. The door opened. The woman who strode out was in a hurry. She was dark and beautiful and maybe in her forties. She wore a gray business suit over a black blouse and the necklace she wore was a string of large, colorful stones. She walked past us as if we didn’t exist, her heels clacking on the red bricks. Augustine and I watched her get into the blue Porsche and pull smoothly away.

  I didn’t know who she was. I didn’t know who I was about to see. Augustine was no help. We went through the open door that the woman had not closed behind her.

  We were in a white-tiled entryway with an open glass elevator, which was on its way down. A large man in it was wearing a pair of tan shorts, a matching polo shirt and sandals over bare feet. He had a full head of brown and white hair and a white-toothed smile of what looked like real teeth that were carefully tended. He was a well-kept sixty-five or seventy year old. I knew his name before the elevator door opened and he stepped out.

  “Mr. Fonesca,” he said, extending his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

  I took it. His grip was firm, but he wasn’t trying to win any macho hand-squeezing contest.

  “You’re welcome,” I said as he held out a hand, palm up, in invitation for us to follow him.

  He ushered us off to the right. He smelled like something slightly sweet and musky and displayed the redness of someone fresh out of the shower.

  We went through a large kitchen that opened into a family room and library.

  “Please sit,” he said, sitting on a yellow leather chair.

  Augustine and I sat on a matching yellow leather sofa.

  He poured three glasses of something dark brown from a pitcher full of ice on a low, ornately carved table with inlays of white stones. It could have been from India or Serbia. It could have been Wal-Mart.

  The drink was strong iced tea. The three of us drank.

  “You know who I am,” he said.

  “Yes, D. Elliot Corkle.”

  “And?”

  “You sell gadgets on television.”

  The tea was good and strong. I could have used a biscotti.

  “Used to. House hold aids,” he corrected, chewing on an ice cube. “For nineteen-ninety-nine, your kitchen fantasies can come true. Our products are all made of the finest durable Oriental plastics and South American metals.”

  “My favorite’s the steamer chopper,” I said.

  “You have one?”

  “No, I watch infomercials. Insomnia. I don’t get cable.”

  “Want to know why I asked Mr. Augustine to invite you here?”

  “No. I just want a ride back to my place. I’ve got packing to do.”

  “It’s taken care of. Right, Jeffrey?”

  “It’s taken care of,” said Augustine. “Mr. Fonesca is fully moved.”

  “There,” said Corkle. “Now we can have a brief but leisurely few minutes.”

  “That should be pleasant.”

  “D. Elliot Corkle will see that it is,” said Corkle. “I would appreciate your doing something for me.”

  I nodded and drank some more tea.

  “After your hospitality, how could I refuse?”

  “D. Elliot Corkle would like you to politely return whatever money may have been advanced to you this morning by Gregory Legerman. I will give you a check for double the amount plus a ten-percent bonus if you decide right away. I’m a gambler.”

  “If I act right away, you pay shipping costs,” I said.

  “And I throw in a set of four eternally sharp cutting knives with handles made from the hulls of salvaged ships—a forty-nine-dollar value.”

  He laughed. He was having fun. I didn’t laugh.

  “Why?”

  “Why do I want you to return the money and go about your business?” he asked, looking at Augustine, who smiled attentively. “Greg is my grandson. He is smart, full of energy and vigor, and inclined to do things without thinking that might get him in trouble.”

  “Like hire me?”

  “Like trying to prove his friend didn’t murder Phil Horvecki. I think it’s possible; even likely, that there are people who are not unhappy that Horvecki is dead, people who might have killed him, people who do not have the conscience of an orange beetle or a lovebug. Horvecki was not a nice human being.”

  He leaned toward me and lowered his voice.

  “And if such a person or persons were responsible for the demise of Philip Horvecki they would not be happy to know that you are trying to help that young man in jail, a young man who, I might add, is not the most socially acceptable of characters. They would prefer that young Mr. Gerall go to a juvenile facility for the crime.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “Do you? Good. Take it from me. D. Elliot Corkle loves his grandson. Word has already gone out that D. Elliot Corkle will be seeing to it that his grandson is no longer pursuing this inquiry.”

  “No,” I said.

  “No?” said Corkle.

  “I took your grandson’s money and told him I would at least talk to Ronnie Gerall and look around, and that I fully intend to do.”

  “Randolph Scott in Comanche Station,” said Augustine.

  Corkle looked at the ex-actor with something less than approval. Augustine shrugged.

  “My grandson could be hurt,” Corkle said, smiling no more.

  “Your grandson could hire someone else if I walked away.”

  “Perhaps someone not quite so stubborn.”

  “This could wind up costing a lot,” I said.

  “I can afford it. You know how many Power Pocket Entertainment Centers I sold last year?”

  “No.”

  “Three million.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “You’re damn right you are,” he said, plunking his almost empty glass on the table. The remaining ice cubes clinked musically.

  “I’d like to go now,” I said.

  “Who is stopping you?” asked Corkle.

  I put down my glass, which didn’t clink as musically as Corkle’s, and stood. So did Augustine and Corkle, who wiped his hands on his shorts.

  Corkle silently led the way back through the kitchen and to t
he front door, where we paused while he made a stop at a closet and came up with a white box about the size of a large book. He placed the box in my hand.

  “Forty-two songs on three CDs,” he said. “Best of the original jazz crooners. Bing Crosby, Dick Powell, Russ Columbo.”

  “I don’t have a CD player,” I said.

  “Not in your car?”

  “I don’t own a car.”

  He shook his head and said, “Wait.”

  I looked at Augustine as Corkle disappeared back in the closet and came up with a white box even smaller than the one with the CDs. He placed it in my free hand.

  “Big seller in its day,” he said. “Nine ninety-five. Thirty-dollar value. Great little CD player.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Think about my offer,” said Corkle. “D. Elliot Corkle is as good as his word. You a poker player, Fonesca?”

  “Used to be.”

  When Catherine and I were first married, I played poker twice a month with two cops, an assistant district attorney and another investigator who, like me, worked for the state attorney’s office. Well, he wasn’t quite like me. He was in prison now, for murder.

  “I host a weekly Wednesday game in my card room. If you like, I can let you know when we have an open seat. You can join us, see how you like it, how we like you.”

  “Game?”

  “Five card stud. That’s it.”

  “Stakes?”

  “Ten, twenty-five, fifty for the first hour,” said Corkle. “Last hour, one to two in the morning, we go up to twenty-five, fifty, and a hundred. We start at nine at night. I know where you can get the money to play. Think about it.”

  He started to close the door as Augustine and I stepped out and said, “If I can’t get you to say ‘no’ to Greg, can I hire you?”

  “To do what?”

  “Exactly what my grandson hired you to do, with one exception.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t care if you find evidence to clear Ronnie Gerall or get him locked up till he is ready for Social Security.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “D. Elliot Corkle doesn’t work that way. The offer is going fast. Just fifteen seconds to decide. I’ll make it a cash offer, payable right here on my doorstep. Two thousand dollars.”

  “Your grandson is still my client.”

  “Now you’ve got two clients. You just have to report to me and keep a protective eye on Greg.”

  I looked at Augustine, who gave me no help, and then back at Corkle.

  “Why not?” I said.

  Corkle reached into his pocket and came out with an envelope and folded sheet of paper.

  “Two thousand in hundreds and fifties in the envelope. Just sign the receipt. It’s made out ‘for consulting fees.’ ”

  “You were sure I’d agree.”

  “Reasonably,” he said. “D. Elliot Corkle could always put the cash away and tear up the unsigned receipt. One should always be prepared for contingencies.”

  I took the envelope without checking the contents and said, “I can’t sign this receipt.”

  Corkle smiled in understanding.

  “I’m a process server, not a consultant.”

  “Then,” said Corkle, “we’ll just have to trust each other. Call when you have information.”

  He closed the door behind us as Augustine and I walked down the path.

  “I think he likes you,” said Augustine. “He’s never invited me in on that poker game, not that I could afford it.”

  “I’m glad,” I said, putting the envelope in my pocket.

  “He’s a good guy. You don’t know him.”

  “And you do?” I asked.

  “He sells gadgets, has millions of dollars, and refers to himself in the third person,” said Augustine. “Also, he loves his grandson and he never leaves the house.”

  “Never?”

  “For the last four years at least, I’ve been told. I don’t know what his reasons are.”

  I shifted my gifts and got in the car.

  “Corkle produced the only movie I ever starred in.”

  “Shoot-out On a Silent Street,” I said, closing the car door. “You and Tim Holt.”

  He started the car. I put on my Cubs cap.

  “Who was the woman who ran out of the house?” I asked.

  “Alana Legerman.”

  “Greg’s … ?”

  “Mother. D. Elliot’s daughter. If you ask me …”

  I never found out what he wanted me to ask him. The front window exploded. Glass shot toward my face. I covered up. Augustine lost control. We spun around three times, skidded onto the freshly cut lawn of a large ranch-style house and came to a stop against a row of trimmed bushes.

  I looked at Augustine. He was silent. Blood dripped like a red tear from the corner of his right eye and made its way down his nose. I was fascinated. Then I passed out.

  Ames McKinney looked down at me. He was tall, lean, a little over seventy years old with tousled gray hair and an accent that came from the West. He always wore jeans with a big buckled belt and a flannel shirt, even when the temperature hit a humid one hundred. He never sweated. Ames was the closest thing I had to a best friend.

  “You’re lookin’ tempered,” he said.

  My face was scratched in four or five places, and my shirt was torn. Nothing was broken.

  “I feel fine,” I said trying to stand. “Augustine?”

  “Other fella in the car? He’s a bit chiseled down but he’ll survive.”

  “Envelope? Money?”

  “Right here,” said Ames, holding up the bulging envelope.

  I tried to stand.

  My legs didn’t cooperate. I started to sink back on the bed. I had been taken to Sarasota Memorial Hospital by ambulance, treated and asked if there was anyone I wanted the people in the ER to call. I came up with Ames, who I knew would be at the Texas Bar, where he worked as a handyman, cleanup man, occasional short-order cook, and bartender. Big Ed, who owned the place, had been taking more time off to visit his children and grandchildren back in New Jersey. The only person Ed trusted was Ames.

  Ames and I had met four years ago when I tried to stop him from having a shoot-out on Lido Beach with his ex-partner, who had gathered every dime in their company and run off to Sarasota to change his name and spend his way into what passed for society on the Gulf Coast. Ames had done some jail time, but not much, since I had testified that the partner had shot first.

  “Steady, partner,” Ames said, grabbing my arm and easing me back when I tried to rise again.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “Don’t know.”

  “How long was I out?”

  “Four hours,” Ames said. “Besides those cuts on your face, you have yourself a concussion.”

  The room tilted at a slight angle and then tilted back the other way. I closed my eyes.

  “Augustine?” I said.

  I passed out again.

  When I next opened my eyes, Detective Ettiene Viviase of the Sarasota Police Department was standing next to Ames.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  He was a burly man of about fifty who pretended to be world weary. We had experienced a number of close encounters of the third kind.

  “Fine and dandy,” I said.

  Augustine would have known I was quoting Earl Holliman in The Rainmaker.

  “You were serving papers?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Lewis is confused,” said Ames. “Trauma.”

  Viviase nodded and said, “What’s it all about?”

  “How is Augustine?” I asked.

  “He’ll live,” said Viviase. “Maybe they can save his sight. He had a .177 caliber pellet lodged in his right eye.”

  “A pellet? Someone shot Augustine with Ralphie’s Red Ryder you’ll-shoot-your-eye-out BB gun?” I asked.

  “And came close to shooting his eye out. Something like that,” sai
d Viviase. “Any idea who shot at you?”

  “Me? What makes you think they were shooting at me?” I said. “They could have been shooting at Augustine, or maybe it was just kids shooting at a car.”

  “Ronnie Gerall,” Viviase said.

  I closed my eyes and started to lean back, and then I remembered. I touched the top of my head. The hair was definitely thinner with each passing crime. Ames reached back into his pocket and came up with my Cubs cap. He handed it to me. I clutched it like a teddy bear.

  “You had Gerall’s name and the words Greg and Winn in your notebook.”

  He held up my notebook and handed it to Ames.

  “Think it might have something to do with your getting shot at?”

  “No.”

  “Doc says you can go when you’re up to it,” said Ames.

  “In a minute,” said Viviase, eyes fixed on me. “Are you getting involved with the Philip Horvecki murder?”

  “I promised a friend I’d drop in and see Gerall, talk to him.”

  “Need I remind you that you don’t have a private investigator’s license?”

  “I tell people that all the time. I’m just doing a friend a favor,” I said.

  “The Gerall kid did it,” said Viviase. “Caught inside the victim’s house kneeling by the corpse. Kid had motive. Kid’s a hothead. Only thing the kid said when he was arrested was, and I quote, ‘I’m glad the son-of-a-bitch is dead.’ Who’s the friend who asked you to stop in and see Gerall?”

  I hesitated. Viviase’s daughter Elisabeth had told Greg and Winn about me. A few more questions and I’d have to lie or tell her father that she was the one who got me involved.

  “I’d like to talk to Augustine,” I said.

  “Jeff Augustine, onetime actor, minor arrests in California, looks tough, maybe. I know he’s working for D. Elliot Corkle. It’s not clear in what capacity, and he is too narcotized to explain or talk to you. You happen to know what he does for Corkle?”

  “I think he’s a kind of companion,” I said.

  “We talked to Corkle,” Viviase said.

  “What did Corkle tell you?” I asked Viviase, making another effort to get up. Ames reached for my arm.

  “Lie down, partner,” he said.

  I did. The thin pillow felt just right behind my head, and I wanted to go to sleep. I was sure I had been given something to ease the pain.