Stuart Kaminsky - Bright Futures

“You’re crazy,” he said.

“Deeply neurotic,” I corrected. “You have a favorite movie?”

“ Gone With The Wind.”

“And?”

“ Wuthering Heights. From Here to Eternity.”

“You didn’t kill Horvecki,” I interrupted.

“I did.”

“Let’s meet for coffee.”

“I don’t drink coffee,” he said. “I hate the stuff.”

“Tea?”

“Tastes like water someone pissed in.”

“A cheeseburger.”

“You’ll arrest me. That other guy, the old one. He’ll shoot me or break my face.”

“I’ll persuade him not to. And I’m not a cop, I can’t arrest you,” I said.

“Citizen’s arrest.”

“You have something to tell me, don’t you?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You almost killed that boy on the steps.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll let you know about meeting you.”

He hung up.

“He didn’t do it,” said Ames.

The phone rang again. I pushed the button and put it to my ear. The phone was a gift to keep me in touch with the world. I did not wish to keep in touch with the world.

“Philip Horvecki was a murderer,” came the voice of the person who had just hung up. “He deserved to die.”

The connection clicked, and the line went dead. I pushed the button and handed the phone to Ames, who wanted no more to do with it than I did. Ames handed it to Victor, who put it in his pocket.

“The shots at you were pellets and that business about blunt-force. 22 bullets was a small pile of cow chips,” said Ames.

“I know,” I said.

The next call came that night, from Sally Porovsky.

“Lewis,” she said wearily.

“Sally,” I said.

“Darrell’s mother doesn’t want him to see you again,” she said.

“He’s all right?”

“Whatever it was he was shot with didn’t go very deep,” she said.

I had been going with Sally for about two years. We didn’t see each other much because she was a child services worker who regularly put in ten-hour days and spent whatever hours she had left with her two children. I was at the fringe of her schedule, which I understood. It was fine with me.

We had never slept together, though we had come close a few times. I had to admit that it was less and less out of a commitment to the memory of Catherine and more an unwillingness on my part to take the symbolic and real action.

I wanted to hold onto the belief that at any moment I could simply fill my duffle bag, get on a Greyhound bus, and head somewhere, anywhere, where no one expected anything of me and I could nurture my depression. I was increasingly aware that my belief that I could do that was becoming an illusion. Ames, Flo, Adele, Darrell, and Sally-I knew I could not easily ride away from them. I’d need a major blow to let me escape.

“Darrell’s fine,” she said. “He’s weirdly proud that he took a bullet-”

“Pellet,” I corrected.

“… that he took a pellet meant for you,” she said.

“I don’t like Ronnie Gerall,” I said.

“He takes some getting used to.”

“You know him?” I asked.

“I handled his transition when he came from San Antonio to Sarasota.”

There was something in her voice, an unfamiliar impatience or something I couldn’t quite grasp.

“His friends are paying me to prove he didn’t kill Philip Horvecki,” I said.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Meet me tomorrow?”

“We’ll see. Call me in the morning,” she said. “We can set a time when I can come and see your new…”

“Lodgings,” I said.

“I’ll talk to Darrell’s mother,” she said. “I’ll make her love you again.”

“You can do that?”

“No,” she said. “I can’t.”

“Thanks.”

“Take care of yourself, Lewis Fonesca.”

“Yes,” I said. “And you too, Sally Porovsky.”

I had not been doing a good job of taking care of myself since Catherine had been struck and killed by the man sitting on the floor, against the wall. Ann Hurwitz said progress was being made.

The last time she had told me that, I suggested that maybe we needed either another hundred thousand troops in Iraq or a small team of psychologists to speed my progress.

“We’ll talk in the morning,” Sally said.

She didn’t seem to want to end the call.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Okay,” I said.

What I really wanted to say was, “I’ll see you if I’m alive. I’ll see you if I don’t run away. I’ll see you if I don’t curl into a ball on the floor next to Victor, hugging my knees.”

I turned off the phone and looked at Victor.

Ames walked in from the other room and said, “Beer, Dunkin’ Donuts, or ice cream?”

Victor shrugged. He didn’t care.

“Make it doughnuts,” I said.

Ames left, and I picked up the phone.

I called the number Greg Legerman had given me. A woman answered after three rings. I said I wanted to talk to Greg. She politely said she would get him. About thirty seconds later he came on the phone with a wary, “Yes?”

“Do your Cheech Marin for me again,” I said. “It’s bad, but probably a little funny for anyone who has a sense of humor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You called me,” I said. “Told me to stop looking for whoever killed Horvecki. Meet me at the Waffle Shop at eight tomorrow morning.”

Silence.

“You’re at a loss for words?” I said.

“I didn’t call you,” he finally said.

“I think I’ll just give your money back and continue to try to locate a reasonably sane world.”

“Tomorrow at eight. Waffle Shop on 301,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

I made one more call, to Dixie Cruise, and told her what I needed and what I would pay.

“I’ll work on it tonight,” she said. “Call me after ten tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” I repeated and turned off the phone.

Dixie was a waitress. She had just moved to the Appleby’s on Fruitville near I-75. Dixie was pert, energetic, in her thirties, and working online toward a business degree from the University of South Florida. Dixie was also a first-rate computer hacker with a small apartment in a 1920s apartment building on Ring-ling Boulevard.

When Ames returned, Victor took one plain, Ames had a double chocolate, and I had a strawberry iced. We ate, drank decaf coffee, and said nothing for the rest of the evening.

There was nothing to say.

The waffle shop is on Washington, also known as State Road 301 or just 301 to the locals. The shop is just before the point where 301 meets Tamiami Trail, known as 41 to the locals. It’s across from a car dealership, half a block from a McDonald’s, and another block from Sarasota High School. It was also a five-minute walk from where I now resided. It didn’t feel right yet for me to say I “lived” there. It probably never would.

The Waffle Shop is semi-famous. Elvis once stopped there. The sign outside says so. There’s a big poster of The King on the wall inside. He was a frequent topic of conversation.

There were regulars at the shop, which looked like it belonged in the 1950s without trying to create the illusion. There was a wraparound counter with red leatherette-covered stools. There were tables against the walls by the windows where morning cops, hearse drivers, car salesmen, high school teachers, truckers and deliverymen, and all kinds of people just hung out.

I sat on a stool and got a coffee from one of Gwen’s daughters, who served as hostesses, waitresses, and owners of the landmark.

For an instant, as I looked at Elvis, I felt like a regular. I did not want to be a regular anywhere, but such things happen.