Retribution lf-2 Read online

  Foreceman was angry. Foreceman was mad as hell. Foreceman was ready to tear off arms or heads, to take a bomb to the top of the Barnes Hospital, throw it off, and destroy all of St. Louis except the part and people he cared for. Luckily the Cardinals were out of town. Foreceman knew way down deep where even he couldn’t find it that he wasn’t going to tear off, blow up, or destroy anything but his own sanity. He had lost everything. Ellen, the factory, the house, the car, two fingers off of his right hand, and three toes, thanks to bad luck, diabetes, and some conspiracy between heaven and hell. He was on his own, a fat little man in a fat world.

  He sat in his apartment looking out the window at the thin layer of snow on the street below and the snow that was still falling from a sky he couldn’t tell had a beginning or end.

  Okay then. Why was he laughing? What was so damn funny? He didn’t own a television set. Not anymore. Not since Ellen and Vickie. He didn’t read the papers. He didn’t listen to the radio or records. His day was worked out. Get up, shave, eat two fried eggs and white bread. Wonder bread or Silvercup. It had no taste but he wanted no taste except the flabber of egg and the heavy muck of Miracle Whip.

  Check the mail. Throw it away unless his check came that day. Walk, walk, walk. He was the fat walking man, hands in his pockets, serious look on his face or sudden unexplained smile. People avoided him. Store clerks didn’t meet his eyes. Eggs, hot dogs, cans of sloppy joe, bread, cucumbers, butter pecan ice cream. Walk. They called him the fat walking man. He knew it, heard it. Maybe he didn’t hear it. Maybe he imagined it as he made his plans for destroying St. Louis, Nashville, New York, Asheville, places he and Ellen and Vickie and… what were the names of the others? What was his father’s name? His mother’s? Hers was Denise, but his? His father pitched horseshoes in the park with old men who had once been young old men.

  At night, just before dark and hot dogs and a half of unpeeled cucumber, Foreceman had his talk with Ellen. She was a kinder Ellen, a more patient Ellen than the one who had lived, but sometimes they argued and she asked him the questions he didn’t want to hear. And he answered.

  Ellen: What do you want to do?

  Foreceman: Erase the past.

  Ellen: You can’t.

  Foreceman: I didn’t say I could. I said I wanted to. I want to strap on a gun belt, get a machine gun, fill my pockets with grenades, put on a helmet, and lead a charge.

  Ellen: Against who?

  Foreceman: The past. I want to destroy the past.

  Ellen: Why?

  Foreceman: Because it won’t come back. If it won’t come back, it doesn’t deserve to live.

  Ellen: You are very crazy.

  Foreceman: I know, but that’s all I have. Ellen: The children.

  Foreceman: I never had them. Are they alive?

  Ellen: Find out.

  Foreceman: No. They’re part of the past.

  Ellen: Or the future.

  Foreceman: They hated me. They ran away.

  Ellen: They did. And they were right.

  Foreceman: They were right. I screamed. I ignored. I think I even beat them. Did I beat them?

  Ellen: No.

  Foreceman: You’re not real so you won’t tell me the truth.

  Ellen: You beat them.

  Foreceman: Did I… do things to them? I don’t remember.

  Ellen: You didn’t do things to them. You never did anything to anyone, not to yourself, not to me.

  Foreceman: Let’s play gin. Let’s play Monopoly. Let’s play chess. Let’s play Yahtzee. Let’s play pinner baseball. Let’s play pin the tail on the donkey. Let’s pretend you like sex with me. Let’s take a bath, a hot bath that burns and makes the air cold when we get out.

  Ellen: We never did those things.

  Foreceman: Then what? Then what the hell what?

  Ellen: The children.

  And then Foreceman turned her off, had some butter pecan ice cream in one of the two Fiesta ware glasses that were still left, and went to sleep thinking of the destruction of the world, thinking of the destruction of the world of William Clamborne Foreceman.

  I put the book down, wondered for a few seconds about the man who could have written this, and fell asleep.

  In my dream I did what I had done every weekday morning of my married life. It was part of our marriage agreement. I had been warned by her and her friends. She needed a cup of coffee before she could function even minimally. I wasn’t a coffee drinker, but I had always been an early riser.

  In my dream as it had been in life, I got up quietly, staggered through the apartment into the kitchen, took a bag of gourmet coffee beans out of the freezer, opened the cabinet next to the refrigerator, and pulled out the small coffee bean grinder. I put a filter in the coffeemaker and filled the plastic tank with tap water.

  It was a beautiful dream. The sun was coming through the slightly frosted windows. I could see Lake Michigan between two high-rises as I opened the coffee and began to pour beans into the grinder. Routine. Comfortable. And then it happened as it does in dreams.

  The bottom of the bag fell out. Brown beans rained onto the cool tile floor spraying the kitchen, bouncing off cabinets, the refrigerator. The bag should have been empty but the beans kept falling, crashing like a driving rain. The floor was turning pebbly brown and barefooted I danced feeling each small bean under me.

  I was panicked. She had heard the thundering beans. She came in. Her hair a morning disarray, her eyes half closed. She saw the mess and tiptoed in slow motion carefully making her way to me, finding clearings in the layers of brown hail.

  The phone was ringing.

  The smell of coffee rustled through her hair as she touched my cheek.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  The phone was ringing.

  She smiled and shook her head as if I had failed to understand some simple truth.

  The phone was ringing.

  I didn’t want the dream to end, but she stepped back and I was awake.

  5

  The phone was ringing in the other room. I rubbed my scratchy face, scratched my itchy stomach, and made it to the phone after five rings. Two more and it would have turned on my answering machine. I decided to start breaking my rule till I found Adele. I picked it up.

  “Fonesca,” I said.

  “Harvey,” he said and then gave his Paul Harvey imitation. “Stand by for news.”

  The phone was cordless. I got the white carton of pad thai and the small carton of white rice, opened them, and fished a white plastic fork from my desk drawer while Harvey talked.

  “Vera Lynn Uliaks ceased to exist in 1975,” he said. “She worked in a real estate office from 1972 to 1975, filed income tax every year. I’ve got her social security number, but no trace of her ever having used it or of filing taxes after 1975. No credit cards. No felonies in any state by anyone with that name. The lady vanished. You want to know how much money she made in 1975?”

  “No,” I said, eating cold tofu.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  “Name of the real estate company she worked for?”

  “Cornell and Bostik,” he said. “They’re still there. You want the address and phone number?”

  I took them down on the lined pad on the desk.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Not right now.”

  “Get me something more to work on. I’ve got long fingers and the Internet is waiting to invade everyone’s privacy.”

  I hung up, pushed the remainder of my Thai food away, and dialed the number in Arcadia. A very young woman named Faith informed me that the company no longer belonged to Mr. Cornell and Mr. Bostik. Both were dead. A woman named Lorraine Kinch had bought the business at least ten years ago. According to the young woman, there were no records kept from Cornell and Bostik. Since the young woman couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty, she was not even born when Vera Lynn Uliaks seemed to have disappeared, and according to Faith, Ms. Kinch was busy with a client.


  “It’s urgent,” I lied.

  “Well,” Faith said after appropriate hesitation. “I’ll give you her cell phone number.”

  She did. I thanked her, hung up, and called the cell phone. Lorraine Kinch picked up on the second ring and said, “Yes.”

  “Ms. Kinch, my name is Lew Fonesca. I’m searching for a woman named Vera Lynn Uliaks who worked for Cornell and Bostik.”

  “I don’t know any Vera Lynn Uliaks,” she said. “There was a young woman who worked in the office when I took it over. She quit. I don’t think she wanted to work for a woman.”

  “And that was it? You never saw her again?”

  “No, this is a small town, Mr…”

  “Fonesca,” I said.

  “I think I heard that she got married and… oh, I remember. She… I really can’t talk now. I’m showing a house to a client.”

  “Can I call you back?”

  “There’s nothing to call back about,” she said.

  “But you remembered…”

  That was as far as we got. She hung up. I called Arcadia information and got the number for the newspaper.

  “Arcadia News,” a young woman said.

  “Who is your oldest reporter?” I asked.

  “Our oldest…”

  “The one who’s been there the longest.”

  “Mr. Thigpen, no, wait, Ethyl’s been here longer, I think.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know,” the girl said. ‘Twenty, thirty years, maybe more. She does social coverage.”

  “May I talk to her?”

  “I’ll connect you to her desk. She’s there right now.”

  There was a click, a few seconds of Barry Manilow, and then a no-nonsense older woman’s voice.

  “Bingham,” she said.

  “My name’s Fonesca. I’m looking for a woman named Vera Lynn Uliaks. She’s the sister of a friend and he wants to find her.”

  “Marvin,” she said.

  “Yes,” I confirmed.

  “Slow one.”

  “Very slow. He lives in Sarasota now. About Vera Lynn…”

  “She married Charles Dorsey,” she said. “I’d say 1975 but I’d have to check.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Needn’t be,” said Ethyl. “I’d like to string you along, tell you I have one of those photographic memories like those women on television, but it’s not in me. I was Vera Lynn’s bridesmaid. Not a big wedding, but I stood up and so did Charlie’s brother Clark.”

  “You know where they went, Charlie and Vera Lynn?”

  There was a long pause and then Ethyl Bingham said, “If you’re a reporter or something trying to dig up what happened to the Taylor girl, believe me you’re wasting your time. It was an accident. I knew Vera Lynn. She had a temper, yes, but under it… It was the rumors, the talk that drove them off, not some big job Charlie said he had waiting in Ohio. Charlie was doing just fine right here in Arcadia.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He was chief of police.”

  “And something happened to a girl named Taylor?”

  “You didn’t know,” she said.

  “I told you. Marvin wants to find his sister. What was the Taylor girl’s first name?”

  “Sarah, Sarah Taylor,” she said. “That’s all I’ve got to tell you.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She died,” said Ethyl Bingham. “She died. I’m sorry. I don’t like ghosts in the morning.”

  “I know how you feel,” I said. “But…”

  “I’m sorry. That’s all I can or wish to say.”

  She hung up.

  I called Harvey and said, “Good Morning, Americans,” in my best Paul Harvey, which is far worse than Harvey’s. “Vera Lynn Uliaks married a Charles Dorsey in Arcadia in 1975. He was chief of police. A young woman named Sarah Taylor died in 1975 in Arcadia. There may be a connection.”

  “If the Arcadia court system and police have a data bank or the newspaper, I’ll get back to you soon. Meanwhile, I’ll work on finding Charles Dorsey and Vera Lynn Dorsey.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Just keep mentioning it,” he said. “I live on health food, computers, and sincere compliments.”

  I shaved with my electric razor and went outside where the sun was glowing orange and happy. I ignored it and with my toothbrush and paste moved down to the rest room shared by the tenants.

  An old man, fully clothed, was sitting on the toilet. His head was back and he was snoring. I moved to the sink and brushed my teeth. The hot water wasn’t working. I washed cold.

  Considering the state of the building, the indifference of the landlord, and the clients and the homeless, the rest room was reasonably clean thanks to Marvin Uliaks who swept and scrubbed once a week and then knocked on every door in the building holding his hand out and saying, “Bathroom’s clean.”

  Some said “thanks.” Some didn’t answer. Most gave him a quarter or even half a dollar. I gave him what I could, usually a buck. It was worth it.

  The homeless guy snoring in the toilet stall had a definite smell of baked and spoiling human. He woke up with a snort. There was a partition between us but I could hear him drop his pants, use the toilet, cough, pull up his pants, and stagger forward.

  He turned to look at me.

  “You’re the little Italian,” he said, pointing at me.

  In spite of the heat he wore two sweaters and a three- or four-day growth of beard.

  “I am,” I said, washing the remnants of soap from my face. The bruise on my face provided by Bubbles Dreemer was almost gone.

  “I slept here,” the man said, reaching into his pocket for something he didn’t seem to be able to find.

  “I guessed.”

  “Usually sleep in a closet at one of the twenty-four-hour Walgreens,” he said. “Move from one to the other. Used to be a pharmacist. No, that’s not right. I am a pharmacist. I just don’t work as one. It’s been more than a while.”

  “That a fact?” I asked, toweling off my face.

  “True as the fact that the sun is out there waiting to bomb us to early ultraviolet death,” he said, searching his other pocket for whatever was missing. “Not good to spend too much time in the sun.”

  “I’ll remember,” I said.

  “You’re in the office about five doors down,” he said.

  “I am.”

  He failed to find what he was searching for in his second pocket.

  “I’m a bit unsteady today,” he said. “Oh, I don’t drink. Never did. No drugs either. It’s my mind. Doesn’t function right. I lose days, weeks, get headaches, fall a lot, get to know the people over there in the emergency rooms at Doctor’s Hospital and Sarasota Memorial.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “It’s the way things are,” he said with a sigh. “Saw something last night might interest you.”

  “What was that?” I said, heading for the door.

  I had to come within inches of him. Decay.

  “The ghost of Martin Luther posted the bans on your door,” he said. “I stood in the shadows, and in his robes, a cowl over his head, he posted them on your door.”

  “A man dressed like a priest?”

  “Or a woman,” he said. “My eyesight is… well, years ago I had glasses but today I’m a living testament to man’s ability to endure.”

  There was a definite note of pride in his voice.

  “We endure,” I said. “You like Thai food?”

  “I consume any food. I’m a human in need of fuel. I have given up the concept of like and dislike of food, lodging, or clothes. It exists and I wander.”

  “Come on,” I said.

  He followed me to my office door and pointed to it.

  “There is where he posted his conceits,” he said.

  “You have a name?” I asked, opening the door.

  “I had one,” he said. “Now I am known as The Digger.”

  “Why?”

>   “Who,” he said, putting a not clean palm on my shoulder, “the hell knows? But it seems to fit me.”

  “Wait here,” I said, leaving him in the doorway. I retrieved the two cartons of food and my plastic fork and brought it to him.

  “Thai, you say?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “It would probably settle nicely with a root beer,” he said, cradling the two cartons.

  I fished a dollar out of my pocket and handed it to him.

  “I’ll accept this food and dollar if you’ll accept my thanks,” he said.

  “I accept, and thanks especially for telling me about Martin Luther’s visit.”

  “Are you a Lutheran?” he asked.

  The phone began to ring.

  “Lapsed Episcopalian,” I said.

  “Odd for an Italian,” The Digger said.

  The phone kept ringing.

  “Root beer,” I said.

  He took the hint and wandered away. I closed the door behind him and went for the phone.

  “Fonesca,” I said.

  “Ed Viviase,” the caller said.

  Ed Viviase was a detective in the Sarasota Police Department. I liked him. He tolerated me. Considering the fact that I was a depressed process server who basically wanted to be left alone in my room, our paths had crossed more times than chance would account for. Sarasota is not a big city, but I doubted if many other noncriminals who lived and visited here were known by Ed Viviase and the rest of the force.

  “We have to talk,” he said.

  “Let’s talk,” I said.

  “In my office,” he said. “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” I agreed.

  He hung up. Sarasota Police Headquarters is little more than a block away, north on 301, cross the street to the right, and there it is less than half a block away. Fifteen minutes was plenty of time to walk to his office and wonder why he wanted to see me.

  I put on clean slacks and a clean white short-sleeved shirt with a button-down collar. One of the collar buttons was slightly cracked. When it went, I’d probably just throw the shirt in the garbage can and pick up another one at the Women’s Resource Center.