Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) (29 page)

“And if I say neither?”

“Then you’d be lying and Ronnie would be one step closer to death row.”

“I think the Lord sent you,” he said softly. “It was me. We’d been watching Horvecki’s house whenever we could, waiting for him to commit a new abomination. A man cannot help being the creature the Lord created, but he can do battle with his nature.”

“You saw and did what?”

He took another drink, let out an “aah,” and said, “A few minutes after midnight I hear voices inside the house, voices filled with hate. And then a thudding sound. Ronnie comes down the street just about then and goes in the house. Man in a watch cap climbs out the window at the side of the house and goes running down the street. Ronnie comes outside like a flash, looks around, and goes back inside.”

“How loud were the noises and voices inside the house before Ronnie showed up?” I asked.

“Loud enough,” he said. “Police came just about then, went in, and you know the rest.”

“How long between the time Ronnie came out to look around and the time the police arrived?”

“Less than a minute,” he said. “No noise. Police there almost instantly, which could mean—”

“Whoever called 911 did it before Ronnie got there,” I said.

“The murderer called 911?” asked Pepper.

“Where was Williams that night?” I asked.

“I’m not my brother’s keeper,” he said.

“Did either Ronnie or Rachel see you in front of the house?”

“Probably,” he said. “I wasn’t hiding. I wanted Horvecki to know I was there watching. The police will want a statement from me, won’t they?”

“They will,” I said.

“There is a restraining order against Essau and me. I prayed it wouldn’t be necessary for me to come forward,” he said. “I prayed that the real killer would step forth or be exposed before I had to speak out, but it looks as if the Lord has chosen me to speak the truth. It will be in the newspapers won’t it?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

He clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and dropped his head in prayer.

I left the building.

The dog got up, looked at me, and growled deeply. I wouldn’t make it to the gate if she didn’t want me to, and she didn’t look as if she wanted me to. I looked at the door. Pepper did not come out.

“Steady on, girl,” Ames called.

The big dog took slow, stalking steps in my direction. Pepper still did not appear. The dog rocked back, ready to pounce, when Ames’s voice boomed with authority.

“I said steady on.”

The dog looked at him as he took another step toward me. Ames came out with a small gun, which slipped out of his sleeve and into his hand.

I hadn’t moved, but the dog had. She was a few steps from me, now, and growling again. Ames fired into the air and the dog scampered off to a far corner. Then Pepper appeared in the doorway of the building. He looked at me and Ames and then at the dog.

“You shot her,” he said.

“No,” I said. “She’s just frightened.”

“So are we all,” said Pepper. “So are we all.”

A
LEAN WHITE HERON
stood on one leg atop the rusting pickup truck on Zo Hirsch’s lawn. The bird looked at me, and I looked back. He considered putting his foot back down but changed his mind as I walked up the cracked concrete path to the front door.

“You,” Hirsch said opening the door and looking up at me.

“Me,” I admitted.

“You’ve got the papers, right? More courts and lawyers after me? Okay, bring it on.”

I handed him the envelope with the summons enclosed.

“They can’t get blood out of a banana and I’m a banana.”

“Your wife?” I asked.

“And the third-rate shortstop,” he said. “I made an offer they couldn’t refuse, and they refused it. I’m down to selling off some of my collection. Interested in buying a genuine Cleveland Indians sweatshirt once worn by Larry Doby?”

“How much?”

“Two thousand.”

“What do you have under a hundred?”

“Baseball autographed by George Altman, a Cub. Led the National League with twelve triples in 1962.”

“How much?”

“My pride is gone. I’ll take what you offer over fifty dollars.” I took out my wallet, found two twenties and a ten and handed it to him.

“Can we talk?” I asked.

“We are talking.”

“Can I come in?”

“What the hell.”

He pocketed the money and stood back to let me in. I moved into the living room and sat down. Black baseball players in poses and smiles looked down at me. Zo Hirsch, summons and the cash I had given him in hand, hurried off to the back of the house and returned almost immediately with the baseball. He tossed it to me. Then he sat in the chair across from mine.

“You want something to drink? I’m down to store-brand ersatz cola and root beer from a dollar store. It tastes vaguely like something besides tap water.”

“Tempting,” I said, “but no, thanks.”

“Simply put,” he said, “what do you want from me? There isn’t much left, but what there is, with the exception of a few treasures, is for sale.”

“Horvecki,” I said. “You were his only friend.”

“Friend,” he repeated the word, more to himself than to me. “We talked baseball, had drinks.”

“He talk about anything else? What did he care about?”

“Guns,” said Zo Hirsch, “and his daughter, Rachel. I only saw her a few times a couple of years ago. Cute kid, too skinny, didn’t talk. My ex-wife was not too skinny and she could talk, mostly in Spanish. She called me ‘Pequeño.’ You now what that means?”

“Little,” I said.

“At first she said it with a smile and a touch. Later she said it with a hiss and folded arms. A piece of work.”

“Horvecki,” I reminded him. “What else?”

“He liked the ladies. They didn’t like him. He paid for companionship. Come to think of it, so did I.”

Zo Hirsch sat back in the chair and drummed his fingers on the arms.

“Pine View and Bright Futures,” I said.

“Oh yeah, almost forgot. He hated them both. His kid got turned down by Pine View. He was determined to bring the school and that Bright Futures program down. He didn’t talk about it much, but when he did, that was what he said. He supplemented his daughter’s education by teaching her how to ride, shoot, learn his truth about history, which was wacky. Next question.”

“Wacky?”

“Phil had a long list of groups he hated. The School Board, the ACLU, the Demo cratic Party, lawyers, psychiatrists, teamsters, television writers, professional tennis players—”

“Enough,” I said. “I get it.”

“You gotta give him credit,” said Zo Hirsch. “The man knew how to hate.”

“Your friend?”

“No,” he said. “But the man knew baseball.”

“He was ruthless in business,” I said. “He was a giant five-story steamroller in business. He crushed and was proud of it.”

“What was in it for you?”

Zo Hirsch squirmed a little in his seat, shook his head and looked toward the recently repaired front window.

“He bought baseball memorabilia from me, paid more than top dollar, never even questioned authenticity. Philip Horvecki was a substantial part of my income.”

“He was a—”

“Sucker,” said Zo Hirsch, “but he knew it. I think he was buying a friend. I was happy to sell. The guy really did know baseball and he served good lunches.”

“Why you? There are plenty of people for sale.”

“He liked showing me off,” said Zo Hirsch. “It made people uncomfortable. A little black man. He liked making people uncomfortable. One more question. Then I’ve got to go see my lawyer to find out if there’s anything to salvage. I hope he suggests that I hire a hit man and get rid of my ex-wife and the shortstop. You on that bicycle again?”

“No. I’ve got a car.”

“Good. You can give me a ride. On the way, I’ll give you my all-time favorite Cubs lineup and you can do the same.”

I put the slightly tarnished George Altman autographed ball in the glove compartment and drove Zo Hirsch to an office building on Orange, just north of Ringling.

When Hirsch got out of the car, he hesitated and said, “Phil Horvecki was a shit, but he was my friend, sort of, the poor bastard.”

I watched him walk to the big double-thick glass doors and reach up for the handle. He pulled the door open with dignity and strength and disappeared inside.

I wondered how he planned to get back home.

After I called her, Alana Legerman met me at the FourGees Coffee Shop on Beneva and Webber. She was reluctant. I was persuasive. I didn’t try to tell her that I was still trying to save Ronnie. I told her I wanted to talk to her about her son.

The lunch crowd had cleared out. I had a choice of the bright, sunny room where there were small tables, but I chose the back room, dark and minimally plush, with music piped in at a level where one could still have a conversation.

She came in after I did, just as the last customers, three
women, moved out of the side room and left. She saw me, walked over, and sat, hands in her lap. She wore a light blue dress with short sleeves and a black belt with a big silver buckle. She was doing Grace Kelly ice princess, and she was good at it.

“I’m waiting,” she said.

A lean girl, barely out of her teens, came in to take our order.

“Coffee and a scone,” I said.

“Prune?”

“Plain.”

The waitress turned to Alana, who said, “Tea, mint.”

“That’s it?” asked the girl.

I said it was, and Alana went back to her patient waiting pose.

“Does Greg own a pellet rifle?”

“My son owns whatever he wants. His grandfather doesn’t deny him anything.”

“So, he owns a pellet rifle?”

She shrugged.

“Who knows? I’ve never seen him with one.”

“Why does Greg want to save Ronnie Gerall?”

“They’re friends. That’s how I had the bad fortune to meet Ronnie.”

“What kind of friends?” I asked.

This time she cocked her head back in a becoming look of surprise.

“You’re suggesting my son and Ronnie had a homosexual relationship?”

“No. That didn’t occur to me, but I’ll think about it. Did Ronnie rule in their relationship?”

“Probably,” she said.

“Have you ever seen Ronnie act violent?”

“No.”

“Does Greg have any other friends besides Winston Graeme?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“When did they become friends?”

“About a year ago. No, two years ago. Winn Graeme is very protective of my son. My father and I are both very grateful for it, though I must confess that I don’t understand why the boy puts up with Greg.”

“Greg keeps punching him in the arm,” I said.

“A token of my son’s inability to come up with a painless way of expressing his friendship. His therapist assures me that when he gets to Duke he will mature. What is this all about?”

Our coffee and tea came. I picked up the check. We drank in silence for a few seconds, and then I said, “Does Greg write poetry?”

“Poetry? You ask the damnedest questions. Greg writes poetry, short stories, does sketches and paintings that could earn him a scholarship, and he reads at a rate that is not a treat to watch. He doesn’t just read. He devours books.”

“Do you and your father want Ronnie to go to prison for murder?”

“We’ll be satisfied to have him sent away for pretending to be a high school student or, better yet, whatever he did in Texas that he and his wife ran away from.”

“Your whole family hired me to find evidence that he didn’t kill Horvecki.”

“My father and I have changed our minds,” she said, finishing her coffee. “The job has changed. If you find evidence that he killed Horvecki or that other man . . .”

“Blue Berrigan.”

“Blue Berrigan,” she repeated with a shake of her head. “What kind of people have we gotten ourselves involved with? No answer is required.”

I gave none.

“Are we finished?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. I have another appointment.”

She got up, picked up her purse, and said, “Nail the bastard.”

“Someone else said the same thing.”

“A woman?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Of course,” she said and strode away.

When she was gone, I made a call and got through after two rings.

“This is Lew Fonesca.”

“I know,” said Winn Graeme.

“I’d like to see you.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Where?”

“FourGees. It’s—”

“I know where it is. You have something?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“I’ll be right there.”

I had a refill of coffee and waited, listening to Rufus Wainwright sing “Not Ready To Love.”

It took him twenty-five minutes before he came into the backroom. He adjusted his glasses to be sure I was the person he was looking for.

“I’m missing golf practice,” he said, sitting down in the same seat Alana Legerman had been in. “I had to tell the coach and tell him my mother called and said she wasn’t feeling well.”

“He believed you?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t call me a liar. I don’t like lying. What’s going on? Why isn’t Greg here?”

“You go everywhere together?”

“Pretty much,” he said. “We’re friends.”

The waitress came back to take our order and get a good look at Winn Graeme.

“Are you Winston Graeme?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I saw you play Riverview,” she said. “You had twenty-four points. My boyfriend was Terry Beacham, but we’re not together anymore.”

It was a clear invitation, but not to Winn, who said, “You have a caffeine-free diet cola?”

“Just Diet Coke.”

“I’ll have that,” he said, looking at me and not at the girl, who got the message and moved away.

She had forgotten to ask if I wanted a refill or something else.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why what?”

“Why are you and Greg friends?”

“He’s smart and we get along. Sometimes you can’t explain things like friendship.”

“I think I can explain it,” I said. “How much does Greg’s grandfather pay you to take care of his grandson and pretend to be his friend.”