Stuart Kaminsky - Bright Futures

A thin woman with wild hair came down the aisle perpendicular to us carrying a load of books she wouldn’t be able to read in a generation. The books at the top and in the middle of the pile threatened to fall. Blue Berrigan was silent until the woman rounded the corner, went up the next aisle, pulled out two more books, and balanced them on top of her heap. Then she went out of sight.

“I’m looking at pictures of old airplanes,” I said.

“Good.”

I wasn’t sure why he might think that was good.

“You’re not being blackmailed,” I said.

“No.”

“Then…”

“I’m being paid to distract you,” he said with a great sigh.

“From what?”

“Whatever you’re working on.”

“Who’s paying you?”

“A man who called me, said he knew my work, knew I was down on my luck. I’m supposed to keep bothering you, sending you on wild grouse hunts, tell you someone tried to kill me. Improvise.”

“How much is he paying you?”

“Five thousand dollars in advance. I’ve got it back in my room.”

“But you’ve decided…”

“The guy sounds nuts, is what I’m saying. I’m keeping the money, packing up, and moving west. I’m only renting a room here. He’s got someone keeping an eye on me. I’ll have to lose whoever it is.”

I was tempted to say I’d join him in his getaway, but it wasn’t temptation enough.

“Don’t go yet,” I said.

“Don’t go?”

“He calls you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him you have me looking for grouse.”

“Ah, I see,” he said.

“What’s a grouse?” I asked.

Neither of us knew for certain.

“Let’s leave separately,” I said. “He might have followed you. I’ll get back to you.”

He got up without certainty and said, “I’m really very good with kids. I just, you know, got lost.”

“I know,” I said.

“You don’t live near here.”

“No. I come here when I want to be alone, where no one can find me unless they plant tracking devices on my bicycle. You want to give me a ride home?”

“No, can’t,” he said standing quickly. “I’ve got to go.”

He strode away quickly. I waited about ten seconds and then followed him to the glass doors at the entrance to the library. I stayed against a wall inside, watching him find his car in the lot and leave. It was a well-used Jeep of uncertain vintage. I got the first three letters of his tag before he turned left. That’s when whoever was in the backseat sat up. I couldn’t see who it was.

“Embarrassing, demeaning, humiliating, abasing,” Darrell said. “It brings me down. Know what I mean?”

He was out of intensive care and propped up on a couple of pillows. There was an IV in his right arm and a look of exasperation on his face. He was out of danger, but not out of flaunt.

“Almost killed by a BB in my back,” he said with a single shake of his head. “How do I explain that? How do I strut that? ‘Hey man, I got shot.’ ‘Yeah, with what?’ ‘A BB gun.’ ”

“It almost killed you,” I said.

“That makes no difference on my street. Take that back. Shot with a BB gun? That’s below a misdemeanor on my street.”

“Sorry. Maybe you’ll be lucky next time and get shot with a machine gun.”

“Not funny. I was lucky. Bad lucky,” said Darrell. “Hey, do me a favor and get the shooter. Then let old Ames shotgun blast him a second asshole.”

I nodded. He was still hooked up to the machine with the green screen that painted white mountains and valleys to the sound of a low beep-beep-beep.

“I’ll find him,” I said. “You want my hat?”

“Your Cubs hat? I’m touched, Fonesca. I know what that hat means to you but a, it’s your sweat in there, and b, I’m not a Cubs fan.”

I nodded again.

“My mom still mad at you?”

“Sort of.”

“Ms. Porovsky?”

Sally was more than Darrell’s caseworker. She was someone who cared. Sally knew she couldn’t save the children of the world one abuse at a time, but she couldn’t help trying.

“She’s fine,” I said.

“You?”

“I’m fine.”

“Why don’t you look fine? I don’t look fine,” said Darrell.

“Nurse says you can go home in a few days,” I said.

“From almost dead to back to school in three or four days,” he said.

“It happens.”

“But not much,” he said. “Old Chinese Victor saved my butt from going down the stairs.”

He made a tumbling motion with his free hand.

“I decided something,” he said, licking his lips.

I poured him water from a pitcher into a plastic cup on a table near his bed. He took it and, with my help, drank.

“Don’t laugh. Don’t even smile, and don’t tell anyone, not even my mom.”

“I won’t.”

“I know,” said Darrell. “I’m going to try out for the play at Booker.”

Booker High, I knew, had a big annual musical production. I’d been told by Sally and Flo that they were very nearly professional.

“You sing?” I asked.

“That’s what I like about you, Fonesca. You are dribbling down with emotion. I can sing. I can act.”

“What have you done?”

“Nothing yet,” he said. “I just know I’m good. I’ll tell them on the street that I’m going to be the next Will Smith or Denzel or Cuba. Maybe they’ll buy it, you know?”

We went silent and I listened to and watched the green mountain-and-valley machine.

“Get the guy who shot me, Fonesca.”

“I’ll get him,” I said. “Darrell, he was trying to shoot me.”

“I know that. It didn’t hurt less because of that. I’m tired.”

“I’ll be back,” I said.

“I might be out of here first,” he said so softly I could barely hear him.

Darrell’s eyes were closed. He was asleep.

I had people to see and a bicycle parked outside. I made a decision.

There were only two cars parked in the small driveway of the EZ Economy Car Rental. The EZ was a converted gas station, a half-block north of the now-demolished DQ on 301. It wouldn’t last much longer. The banks were moving like relentless giant Japanese movie monsters gobbling up small businesses and looking for more along the strip of 301 from Tamiami Trail to Main Street.

This didn’t matter to Alan, the formerly jovial partner of Fred, who was now dead with one heart attack too many. Alan had been the more likely candidate for heart trouble. In his late forties, Alan was twenty years younger than Fred but fifty pounds heavier. Alan was addicted to strong coffee. Alan had lost the sense of sardonic humor he and Fred had shared. It had kept them both sane between infrequent customers.

“Fonesca, the man from whom there are no secrets,” Alan said when I walked through the door.

He was seated at his wooden swivel chair behind the counter with a cup of coffee in his hand, a cluttered desk drawer lying in front of him. The coffee was in a black thermos. The suit and tie he usually wore had been replaced with slacks and a wrinkled white dress shirt with an open collar.

“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.