Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) (13 page)

“You came at the right moment,” he said. “Today is the third and final day of liquidation. No more rentals. Two cars out there to sell. Take your pick.”

“I don’t want to own a car,” I said. “I want to rent one.”

“You don’t want to own anything,” he said. “And until Fred went to automobile nirvana, I wanted to own everything. The price is right. Both cars will be gone by tonight even if I have to give them to Goodwill.”

“How much for the Saturn?” I asked.

I had rented the gray 1996 Saturn before. There had been a little over 110,000 miles on the odometer when last we met. In its favor, it had behaved, though hollow clanks echoed under the glove box. The last car I had owned was the one I escaped from Chicago in and managed to get as far as the DQ parking lot. Cars and I are not friends. One of them had killed my wife. One of my many fears was that I might one day accidentally hit someone
and spend the rest of my life like Victor Woo. Perpetual apology. Perpetual shock.

“What do you have in your wallet?” Alan asked after another sip of coffee followed by a face that suggested the coffee or life or both were bitter.

“I’m flush. Two clients.”

“Okay, how does sixty-six dollars sound to you?” he asked.

“For the Saturn? Reasonable.”

“You just bought a car. Congratulations. Enjoy. No, wait. You don’t enjoy anything.”

He picked up a pair of keys on a small metal hoop and threw them in my direction. They arced through the air, tinkling as they flew. I caught them.

“I’ve got the papers right here,” he said, shifting his considerable bulk so that he could dig into the exposed desk drawer.

I took out my wallet, extracted the sixty-six dollars and placed it on the counter. Alan shifted out of the chair, which let out a weary squeak. He placed the papers on the counter, signed them, asked me to sign, and said, “You want another car?”

“No.”

“Gift for a friend?”

“No.”

“We’re having a two-for-one sale.”

“No.”

“You are a tough customer.”

He held out his hand. We shook.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Decidedly not,” he said, “but I am solvent. Fred and I owned this business and the land on which it sits. I have a generous offer, which I have accepted. Fred’s widow and I will share right down the middle. Want to know how much we’re getting?”

“No.”

“A million six. I’m heading back to Grosse Pointe as soon as the papers are signed and the check is in my hand.”

“Good luck,” I said. “All right if I leave the car here for an hour?”

He shrugged, a good shrug that shook his expansive body, and said, “Till the wrecking ball descends.”

Outside, I used the cell phone, called Ames, and asked if he could meet me. I told him where. He said he could and would be right over. I walked across the street and into the Crisp Dollar Bill, where Sammy Davis, Jr., was singing “There’s a Slow Boat Sailing for New York.” The familiar smell of beer reminded me of Mac’s bar, back in Chicago, when I was a kid.

I made out the shape of four people at the bar to my left. No one was in any of the booths across from the bar. I sat in a booth where I could watch the door, looked over at Billy the bartender and owner, and nodded. He knew what I wanted.

Some say that good things come to those who wait. Bad things come, too.

The comedian Steven Wright says, “When worse comes to worse, we’re screwed.”

Blue Berrigan came through the door and sat across from me.

“I followed you again,” he said.

“I figured that out.”

Billy placed an Amstel and a mug in front of me.

“You want a beer?” I asked Blue.

“A beer?” He didn’t seem to understand.

“A beer, to drink.”

“Blue doesn’t drink alcohol. Dr Pepper.”

Billy nodded and moved off. Sammy Davis, Jr., had moved on to “What Kind of Fool Am I.”

“You ready to tell me who hired you?”

“No. Well, maybe.”

Blue was fidgeting, whispering, casting glances at the people at the bar who were not looking in his direction. Billy turned on the television set mounted up near the ceiling. He changed channels until he found what looked like a rerun of a
high school football game. He turned off the sound. Blue had watched Billy.

“I think I know who it was,” I said. “I think it was a man who hides in the backseats of Jeeps.”

He started to slide out of the booth, but before he could, Ames sat next to him, blocking his exit.

“Blue Berrigan, this is Ames McKinney. Ames has done time for killing his former partner. Ames is a man of honor who has a fondness for weapons, usually of an older vintage.”

Ames was wearing his very old, very well cared-for tan leather Western jacket. He held it open so Blue could see something against Ames’s waist. I couldn’t see it from where I sat. I didn’t have to.

Berrigan looked frightened, very frightened, and said, “Wait, I have evidence that Ronnie Gerall didn’t kill Horvecki.”

“What evidence?” I asked.

“I’ve got it at my place.”

“Let’s get it,” Ames said.

Billy appeared with a bottle of beer for Ames and said, “Burger’ll be up in a few minutes. One for you?”

“No thanks. Ate at the Texas.”

“Blue Berrigan,” Ames went on when Billy left. “Kids’ singer?”

“Yes,” Blue said, moving farther into the corner.

“ ‘How Many Bunnies in the Hole’?”

“Yes.”

“You believe in coincidence?” Ames asked.

“Yes,” Blue said, growing smaller.

“I just bought a CD of yours for Catherine and Adele.”

“Coincidence,” Blue said. “This whole thing has gone too far.”

“It went too far when someone murdered Philip Horvecki,” I said.

The burger came. It was big. I knew it had grilled onions and tomato on a soft bun.

“I told you the truth. About distracting you, I mean. Listen, Blue needs the bathroom. He needs it bad, real bad,” Blue said.

“‘
The Potty Is Your Friend
,’ ” Ames said, looking at me.

“Let him out,” I said.

Ames sidled out of the booth, letting Blue get out and hurry toward the bathrooms at the rear. Ames got up and followed him. Then I heard Ames say, “He locked it.”

Two of the bar patrons looked toward the bathrooms. One was a shaky woman who kept blinking, the other a skinny man who tried to keep his elbows from slipping off the bar.

There was a window in the men’s room. It was high on the wall and narrow, but it was definitely possible for a man to squeeze through. I left my burger and called out for Billy to open the men’s room with a key. He got the urgency in the situation and moved quickly. So did I, but not toward the bathroom. I went past the bar and onto the street.

The red Jeep was parked half a block down, to my left. Blue Berrigan was racing for it and moving fast, fast enough to get into the car, make a U-turn, and be on his way before I got twenty steps, but not fast enough to keep me from seeing something move in the backseat of the Jeep.

Ames appeared at my side.

“Gone?” he asked.

“Gone,” I said.

“Know where?” asked Ames.

“I think so.”

We went back inside. I paid Billy, who said, “Always a pleasure having you. You bring a touch of chaos into an otherwise tranquil bar.”

I had the feeling he meant it.

I took my burger and led the way out the door and to my Saturn.

“Nice car,” he said.

“I bought it.”

“Needs help.”

“We all do.”

We got in, and I ate while I drove.

I came to three conclusions:

The Saturn would definitely not qualify for the Indy 500.

There was no radio in the car.

I still didn’t like driving.

Ames sat silently, jostled by what might be a weeping loose axle.

This was my kind of car.

Traffic wasn’t bad. It wasn’t snowbird weather, but as I tried to pick up speed I did pass three kids in a pickup truck wearing baseball caps. The kid in the middle had his cap turned around.

“Why do they wear their caps backward?” I asked Ames, who wasn’t likely to know but was the only other person in the car.

“Insecurity,” said Ames. “Want to look like millions of other kids.”

“Insecurity,” I said as I considered trying my Cubs cap backward. I decided not to. I already knew what a fool looked like.

“Only catchers behind the plate should wear their caps backward, to accommodate their masks,” I said.

I was in the right lane, going south on Beneva. The pickup pulled next to me. The kid in the window gave me a one-finger salute. Ames leaned over me and showed his long-barreled gun. The kids pulled away fast.

I tried for fast, too, and failed as the Saturn let me know that quick turns to the right were subject to grinding. We were on Wilkinson now. When we got in sight of the park I looked down the block at the parked red Jeep. I pulled in behind it and got out quickly, Ames right behind me as I hurried toward the yellow house after checking to be sure there was no one hunched down in the back of the Jeep.

I knocked at the front door of the yellow house. Ames was still behind me, his hand under his jacket. I knocked. There was a wheezing sound behind the door, which then opened.

The old woman who opened the door in an orange robe and slippers carried a yellow cup of steaming something.

“Blue Berrigan,” I said.

“Are you those paparazzi people?”

“No,” I said. “We’re fans.”

Ames gently pushed the door open and stepped in. I followed and closed the door.

“Don’t, for Jesus’ sake, sing me one of his songs, especially that one about the rabbits.”

“We won’t,” I said. “We just . . .”

“Mr. Nelson Berrigan isn’t here and he doesn’t give autographs or signed photographs to fans who seek him out. You’ll have to wait till his next public appearance. Besides, he’s not home.”

“His car is parked outside,” I said.

She looked at Ames with suspicion, took a sip of her brew, and leaned between us to look at the Jeep at the curb.”

“He’s still not here. No way he could get to his room without getting past me, no fucking way. Pardon my French.”

“Could he have gone around the back?” I tried.

“Yes, but there’s no way to get upstairs back there. Doesn’t the old guy talk?”

She wheezed mightily and fished an inhaler out of the pocket of her robe. A wad of tissues came with it and drifted to the floor. She caught them deftly without losing a drop of whatever she was drinking.

“Used to be a juggler,” she said, putting the tissue wad back in her pocket and taking a deep puff of the inhaler. “Long time ago. I suppose that’s how Nelson got the show business bug. His father was a tombstone carver.”

“He’s your son?” I asked.

“He is definitely not my son. He lived next door to us when he was a kid. Now I definitely want you the hell out of here. Good-bye.”

She closed the door. We turned and walked to the curb. I looked through the window of the jeep. Nelson Blue Berrigan was slumped over on the floor, legs beneath the steering wheel, head and torso on the floor near the passenger door. He was not taking a nap. The deep reddish black oozing wound on the back of his head felt like death, but I made sure by opening the door and reaching over to see if there was a pulse. There wasn’t.

We had been inside the house for no more than two minutes.

Maybe we should have gone back and told the old woman he was dead.

Maybe we should have called 911.

Maybe we should have looked for clues.

Maybe we should have looked for the killer. He couldn’t have been more than a few minutes away, but a minute or two was enough if he had a car parked very close by.

I slid into the backseat and looked at the floor. There were splatters of blood. On top of one of the splatters were two little pieces of plastic, one white, one red. I knew what they were, but I needed to get the answer to a question before I could decide what to do.

“We’ve got to go back inside the house,” I said. “Keep her busy.

Ames and I went back to the door. The old woman in the orange robe opened it a crack and said, “What the hell you want now?”

“I’ve got to call 911,” I said. “Berrigan is in his car. I think he’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Where were you the last half hour?” Ames asked as I slipped by her and went to Berrigan’s room.

“Me? I didn’t kill him.”

I didn’t call 911 right away. First, I looked around. I didn’t see what I was looking for. I tried the closet. It wasn’t there. When I was satisfied, I called 911 and then went to get Ames.

The old woman was saying, “. . . a quiet man.”

“Sorry ma’am,” Ames said. “Can we get you anything?”

“You call the police?” she asked seeing me.

“Yes. I have one more question.”

“Question?”

I asked her. The answer confirmed what I found, or failed to find, in Berrigan’s room.

Ames and I moved to the door.

“You’re not staying till the police get here?” the old woman asked.

“Can’t,” Ames said gently. “Police will be here in a minute.”

She seemed bewildered as we opened the door. She looked out at Berrigan’s jeep, pulled a pair of glasses from her pocket and put them on, saying, “You sure he’s in there? I don’t see him.”

“He’s there,” I said.

We got in the Saturn and drove away, not quietly, but definitely away.

H
ALF AN HOUR LATER
I was seated behind my desk, looking across the room at the Stig Dalstrom paintings on the wall. They were the only art I owned—four small paintings given to me by Flo Zink. They were of dark jungles and mountains at night with just a small touch of color, a single bird or flower, the distant moon.

Outside, Ames was working on the Saturn. He knew guns, machines, trucks, and automobiles, but it would take a lot of knowing to make the Saturn live again.

I half hoped he would fail. I felt uncomfortable owning anything larger than a DVD player.

My cell phone was on the otherwise empty desktop in front of me. I was waiting. On the way home I had told Ames that it would probably take an hour or less for the police to arrive, so he had better do as much as he could on the car before men in blue appeared bearing guns in the usually quiet street.