Stuart Kaminsky - Bright Futures

“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.