Stuart Kaminsky - Bright Futures

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.

Half 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.

The old woman former juggler in an orange robe would describe us to the police. That would be enough.

“A tall old man wearing a coat in the heat and a not-too-tall, sad-looking fella wearing a Cubs baseball cap,” Ames had said as we drove.

“Driving in a noisy old car,” I added.

“Won’t be hard,” he said.

It was at that point that I called Detective Ettiene Viviase to tell him about the body in the jeep across from Bee Ridge Park. It was better to have a cop I knew around.

Viviase arrived thirty-five minutes into my longing for the comfort of dark jungles. It was just enough time for him to take a look at Berrigan’s body, leave someone to take over the crime scene and get back to Ames and me.

I heard the footsteps on the wooden stairs and watched the door open. Ames was at Viviase’s side.

Once, I had heard Viviase referred to as “Big Ed.” He wasn’t particularly big, maybe a little under six feet tall and weighing in at a little over two hundred and twenty pounds. He was wearing his usual uniform, a rumpled sports jacket, dark slacks, a tie with no personality and a weary look on his face.

“Got a little more to do on the car,” said Ames. “Need a few parts. Should get it working within reason.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Viviase, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “Now tell me a story. Nonfiction preferred.”

“Mind if I wash up my hands?” asked Ames.

“Please do,” said Viviase moving to the desk and facing me across it.

Ames walked slowly through the bathroom door and closed it behind him. Then I heard the water start to flow.

“We didn’t kill him,” I said.

“I know that,” said Viviase. “If you had, you probably wouldn’t have walked up to his door asking for him after you crushed his skull.”

“I definitely wouldn’t have,” I said.

“Talk,” he said.

“Berrigan found me at the Crisp Dollar Bill,” I said. “He said he wanted my help. He was nervous. When Ames showed up, Berrigan went to the bathroom and out the window. You can check with Billy the bartender and the customers who were there. When Berrigan went through the bathroom window, we followed him. He was frightened. I thought maybe we could help. I ran outside and saw him pull away in the jeep. There was someone in the car with him. I couldn’t make out who. My car-”